Nakhash
by dochar ar bith ann
Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures and the the intersection of magic, Muggles and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.
1. The Seder

Hello all! This story goes hand-in-hand with 'The Rebel Snakes' and may involve bits and pieces from various points in the timeline, so before every segment I'll be posting a quick descriptor. It will mostly focus on the original character I introduced in Rebel Snakes, the fat, smug, hotheaded, morally passionate Slytherin and practitioner of Hebraic magic, David Gold.

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Part 1: Gold once told Harry he'd fit in at a Gold Shabbat. He wasn't wrong. In their sixth year, Harry spends Passover with the Gold family, drinks a bit too much, and learns many things. **If you're bothered by the idea of tinkering with the Jewish faith to adapt it to a magical universe, maybe give this one a miss. **

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><p>Dumbledore was all too happy to let them leave the grounds for a night. He spoke highly of Gold's family, and had nothing but praise for Harry's appetite for languages. He didn't seem to like Gold much, but that was beside the point.<p>

Gold didn't like brooms even a tiny bit ("Gravity and I are not close friends. I'd go so far as to say we're not currently on speakers."), so once they were outside the gates, they apparated to a wealthy-looking suburb of London. Gold told Harry to unlock the wards, to practice his Hebrew.

"_Dalet bakah._"

The door swung open.

"Is that them?"

"That's - he never did! Harry _Potter_!"

A man appeared at the door. He was only a few years past Hogwarts age, handsome and quite tall, with a tidy beard. He wrapped Gold in a bear hug. It was only when Harry noticed his eyes - dark and observant, just like Gold's - that he realized that he was looking at his older brother. Apart from the eyes, they looked nothing alike. As soon as he'd finished forcing Gold into the hug (Gold looked pleased to see him, but also a bit annoyed), the boy turned around and yelled up the stairs.

"David's here! With Potter!"

Shouts resounded back through the house. It was a warm and friendly chaos. A moment later, another boy came barrelling down the stairs, cleanshaven and a little younger than the first but just as handsome. "Duddeleh!"

"Call me that again and I will hex you into the next dimension," answered Gold, allowing himself to be bear-hugged again. "Potter, this is Avriel, and the one with the idiotic beard is Samson. Where's Ben?"

"Right here. C'mere, David." This one was obviously the eldest. He waited his turn to hug Gold to within an inch of his life, while the younger ones introduced themselves to Harry. They were all, as far as he could tell, more or less interchangeable - energetic, friendly, delighted to meet him and as different from their youngest brother as it seemed possible to be. Ben took Harry's coat. Avriel ("Call me Avi!") brought him a small circle of cloth and a glass of wine.

"Sorry... what do I do with this?"

"It's a kippah, you put it on your head," said Avi, who was wearing one of his own. Then he swooped in to pin one on Gold, who was still being manhandled by his eldest brother.

Gold tried to swat his hand away, and failed. "Don't - touch - my hair!"

"Don't be afraid to ask questions, Harry. Do you mind if I call you Harry?" Samson was too eager to wait for a response. "The whole purpose of the Seder is to educate. It's a teaching ritual. The more questions you ask, the better it is."

Harry relaxed. This was not what he'd imagined when Gold told him his family were secretive with their magic. He tried the wine, which was a bit cloyingly sweet at first, but soon its warmth seemed to make up for it. Gold stared. "You're a Goy and you're willingly drinking manischewitz?" he asked, with an incredulous laugh. "You, Potter, are going to have a very good night."

"Boys, don't get the guests drunk _yet._"

Gold's mother was a willowy, handsome woman of perhaps fifty with short brown curls, wearing bright emerald robes and golden earrings in the shape of small leaves. She descended on David, kissing his forehead and hugging him as forcefully as any of her sons.

"Mu-_uum_," Gold objected. Harry, who didn't think he'd ever understand being embarrassed by your parents, tried to smile politely despite the faint urge to box Gold's ears and tell him to appreciate what he had.

"Sorry, just-" She was brushing tears out of her eyes. Harry knew he didn't have much frame of reference, but that seemed extreme.

Then Gold's mother turned to him. "_Baruch haba_, dear - welcome. Call me Rifke." Her English was strongly accented.

Harry straightened, mindful of what he'd been practicing. "_Toda rabah. Ma shlomex?_"

She beamed at him. She was more reserved than Molly Weasley, less fiery, but her smile had some of the same warmth. "_Tov, toda_. What a gentleman! Your Hebrew is beautiful. Well, Harry, I hope the boys told you about asking questions, but maybe you won't need to!"

Harry had one major question, but he held his tongue.

Gold's father, Avrum, a very tall, bearded, kind-faced man, arrived with only minutes in hand before sundown, carrying bags of wine and food that the three elder boys rushed to help him deal with. David tried, but as soon as he got up, his father stopped him in his tracks and hugged him with as much emotion as his mother had. Gold looked like he was getting annoyed with the attention.

Harry's enjoyment of the bad wine dulled momentarily. David Gold, nastier and sharper-tongued and far, far homelier than any of his brothers, was clearly so much the favourite son that having him home made his parents cry. Suddenly David reminded him of Dudley all over again. It was a little... odd.

But by the time the meal got started, Harry had mostly forgotten about the strange inequality. It was at least as much a ceremony as a meal. Each place had a bowl of vegetables and a bowl of what looked like water, and there was another plate in the center with everything from an orange to a bone to an egg on it, but nobody touched any of them. Instead he was handed a bound bundle of pages, which was called a Haggadah. Flipping through it, found that every word of the evening had been laid out in Hebrew, Yiddish and English inside, along with textual explanations and illustrations. A bottle of the bad wine was passed around, and each person filled the glass of the person beside them. It felt like boozy primary school.

Avrum said a blessing in Hebrew. Harry had thought just to sip his, but Gold shook his head at him. "More, Potter - most of the glass."

"That's a rule?"

"Mandatory drinking. Welcome to Judaism. When I start telling you about blessing charms in Hebrew there'll be a _lot_ of wine involved."

Harry drank a larger gulp. It made him feel bolder. "You're the first religious wizards I've ever met. Most of them sort of... just don't talk about it."

"No, English wizards don't, do they?" Rifke shook her head, tutting. "Easiest way to deal with something is to shove it under the rug, or so they'd have you believe. So much is wrong that never gets talked about."

"It's not like that's just the Gentiles, mum," said Gold, rolling his eyes.

"But the conflict between magic and faith is a Christian thing," Rifke continued. "We don't worry about it. There's barely a statue of secrecy in Israel."

Harry thought about it. The Dursleys, although privately without much faith to speak of (after all, it took imagination), were nominally C of E. Dudley had been baptized. Harry hadn't. "The church never trusted magic, did it? Witch-burnings and so on..."

"I reckon Christians feel threatened. Who needs faith when you have spells? The whole Christ story loses its_ oomph_, neyn?" David grinned his smug grin. "Unsurprisingly that isn't an issue for us. Early Christians gave us both a hard time - Jews and wizards, that is - so the synthesis was inevitable, really. Those great long wizard beards, those come from the rabbinical tradition - stop preening, Samson - and Hebraic magic is half prayer even now."

"I've noticed," said Harry. The word 'Adonai' popped up often enough that Harry had looked it up. The more complex spoken incantations all seemed to be imploring God for their power. There was a notion that speaking the word 'Yahweh' would rob a Hebraic wizard of his power. Gold assured him it was just superstition, but Harry didn't feel like chancing it. "Is that why all the candles?" he asked, thinking of the flames they had lit in the room of requirement to strengthen the power of their wards.

"I like this one," said Avrum, nodding. "Can we keep him, Rifke?"

Harry smiled. It would have been a lot nicer than going home to the Dursleys. Gold annoyed him sometimes, but he was still preferable to the real Dudley any day. "So - what about the Hanukkah story? The, ah, the oil-"

"The Maccabees? Eight days of light?"

"Yeah - that's not all that miraculous with magic either, is it? You could just use O_leum Facio_. Or, well, I guess it would be _Shemen Asah_."

"His Hebrew's better than mine," Ben joked.

"I'll tell you a secret, Potter." Gold leaned in. "_Nobody cares about Hanukkah_."

* * *

><p>There was a lot of rich, strongly flavoured food, in different, specific courses that came one after another after another, and even more drinking. The courses were separated by a lot of chatter, and prayers from the Haggadah, which everyone took turns reading, even Harry. Some of them made the candles in the room flicker, dimming and brightening with certain words. Some of them summoned illusory pictures in smoke, telling the stories of the text. Some of them were songs.<p>

"Ma_ nishtana ha lyla ha zeh mikkol hallaylot? Why is this night different from all other nights?_ ..."

It was a song from the point of view of a young child, and Gold sang it because he was the youngest. He had a very good voice, rough and strangely sad. By that point Harry had drunk a great deal of the bad wine. In the candlelit warmth he felt lulled and happy and strangely entranced. The rest of the family were looking at Gold again, and Harry saw tears glittering in their eyes again. Was it their inexplicable adoration of their youngest, or just the power of the moment? Harry wasn't sure. He could easily have believed the song itself was a spell. The night certainly felt... different. In Harry's eyes David Gold had always been quite ugly, but the candlelight and the song seemed to transform him. Unless it was Harry that had been transformed.

The Haggadot had, he learned, as the evening went on, been cobbled together by generations of Golds. There were segments from non-magic Seders and segments that addressed magic directly, calling it a gift given to the Chosen People. One of them very strongly implied it had first been given to Moses as he faced the Pharaoh's so-called 'magicians', enabling him to transfigure his staff into a snake - a real magical answer to their slight of hand. Harry asked if there was a spell, and one of the brothers demonstrated by turning a candlestick holder into a small silver snake with the words _Nakhash haphak_.

The snake Malfoy had summoned with _Serpensortia_ in their second year had been aggressive and ready to attack. This snake looked peaceable. The star of David pattern of the candlestick holder was printed on its back. It turned its head to regard Harry through slitted eyes.

"_Hello_," said Harry, without thinking what he was doing.

"_Hello, snake-talker human. You seem content. Are you content?_"

"_I suppose._"

"_Feed me a little of that meat and I shall be content too._"

Harry offered it a fragment of the brisket. It swallowed it whole, curled up and went to sleep, transforming back into a silver carved candlestick.

The Golds were staring at him, not with horror, but with interest. "You're a Parseltongue, Harry?" asked Ben.

"Er. Yeah, I am," said Harry uneasily.

"Well, no wonder you're so quick at picking up languages. You've got one built into your brain."

Harry had never thought of it like that. "It puts people off sometimes. Sorry."

"Why?"

"They sort of associate it with Voldemort."

"Oh, yes, because everything associated with an entire sub-order of animals is automatically You-Know-Who," grumbled Gold.

"I've met nice snakes," said Harry. "Even some alright Slytherins."

"Har-har. The Moses thing is absolute rot, anyway. Archeological records show magic turning up independently in every single human society at around the same time as agriculture, long before Moses. The Babylonians had it first. You take one look at the Epic of Gilgamesh and it's obvious he's a wizard. But everybody likes to think they're special."

"You certainly do," answered Harry, with a grin. He saw Gold's mother bite her lip, and thought he'd overstepped - which seemed strange, because that was exactly how they bantered at school, and Harry knew him to be more or less bulletproof when it came to verbal jabs. But Gold just laughed, and everything was okay again.

Later in the evening the rituals got less formal. The last portion of the ritual was nothing but singing. Avi kept refilling Harry's wine. Everyone started shooting sparks from the tips of their wands with the charm _Nasar_, which sent out a fine golden cascade that was much prettier than the red sparks he'd learned to conjure in his first year. Harry didn't know the words or the tunes but did his best to mumble along, and joined them all in tearing paper links ("For the breaking of shackles and chains! For freedom from Egypt! For the thorough kicking of Pharaoh's nadgers and the sincere hope that You-Know-Who is in for the same, right Harry?") and finally, in sing-shouting "_L'Shana haba'ah bi'Yerushalayim_! Next year in Jerusalem!" - which made the chandelier crash to the table in a magnificent cascade of shards of harmless and apparently illusory glass, to loud applause.

That, it seemed, was the yearly grand finale. Harry thought it was all pretty brilliant. It was like being at the Burrow. It made him long for something he'd never had. A tradition, maybe, an identity. But above all, a family.

* * *

><p>By the time they staggered off to bed Harry could barely think straight, but he did manage to catch Ben alone in the corridor. "I have one last question."<p>

"Yeah?"

Harry lowered his voice. "Why... what happened with David? You all sort of... treat him like he's a precious goblet or something. I know he's the baby and all but-"

"It's more than that. He never told you?" Ben was very red-faced. If he was trying to hide the pained look on his face, he wasn't sober enough to do it well. "He... " Ben hesitated. He disappeared into another moment and came back with a photo album. "That's him when he was four."

The young boy sulking in the photograph had Gold's eyes, but he was bald and frail. "I didn't know wizards could get cancer," Harry said stupidly.

"We're not much better at medicine than Muggles really... Magic is a cheat. Most mediwizards don't actually know that much about the body. They don't usually have to - they can magic an accelerated healing or use a charm to remove a foreign poison. But how do you come up with a spell that just takes out the bad cells and leaves the rest when it's all _you_? It was all through his stomach. The potions they gave him had the same stuff in them that the Muggles get. Tried to kill the cancer and they nearly killed him."

The protectiveness and special treatment suddenly made sense. So did Gold's hatred for it.

"I'm, that's what I'm studying at Salem," slurred Ben, "Integration of Muggle medical theory with magical methodology. Magic with genetics and biochemistry and im-immunology. But it's, it's so hard to get wizards to _listen_ to anything a Muggle comes up with even if it's brilliant r'search - they fancy they're so much better than Muggles. I'm struggling for funding half the time and no matter what I do I'll be too late for David - "

"He's better now though, right?" asked Harry, thinking only to cheer him up. The Gold he knew seemed healthy enough when he wasn't getting himself beat up. He was particular about his thick, elegantly styled brown curls, and he certainly wasn't skinny any more.

"The cancer-"

"Not another _word,_ Ben."

Gold was standing at the end of the corridor, glowering fiercely. They exchanged a few brief words in Yiddish - Ben pleading, David angry - and then Ben slunk away.

"You don't mention this. To anybody. Alright, Potter?"

Harry nodded.

"Especially not Granger."

"Why not?"

"Guilt."

Harry frowned. It didn't seem likely, but he suddenly remembered the way Hermione had blushed at the mention of his name in their fifth year. "Did you two...?"

"Neyn." Gold waved a hand dismissively. "Hence the guilt. She'll think she ought to have_ tried_ to like me more. That's no good for anyone."

"Oh." Harry felt like he'd sobered, but maybe not enough. It took him a moment to process. "You _are _better, though, right?"

"_Don't_. Surely you, Potter, must know what it's like to be stepped around on tiptoe. Bad enough my family thinks I'm fragile."

Harry could understand that. He nodded, and turned to find the guest bedroom they'd given him. It didn't occur to him that Gold had never answered his question.

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><p><strong>More to come!<br>**

**Incidentally, this is based on my experience as the only Gentile at a Reform Seder hosted by a gaggle of 20-year-old university students. It was _fun_. The Golds are not what you'd call Orthodox, as anyone who's been to a more formal Seder will know. If anything's flat-out wrong, please do let me know.**

**As a note on the Yiddish/Hebrew linguistic divide, the family are originally Ashkenaz, but Avrum and Rifke were raised in Israel and so speak both languages.**


	2. A Golem with a Hole in its Head

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Part 2: As a first-year, David Gold gets into an argument with a hat, makes enemies, uses very old magic, and happens upon his purpose.

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><p>"Now, form a line," Professor McGonnagall instructed the first years, "and follow me."<p>

He still couldn't believe he was really here. He couldn't believe it had been permitted. The grand Gothic arches and towers and high walls of Hogwarts were a world away from white walls and sterile sheets - a distance he'd always felt so certain he would never cross. And he'd come here _alone_. Avi hadn't even sat with him on the train and it was the most wonderful freedom in the world. Nobody was looking at him, nobody was asking if he was alright or if he needed any help.

David was nervous and excited and overjoyed and afraid, all at the same time. The joy was the strongest. He felt like his heart would burst.

As they entered the Great Hall there were collective gaps and whispers. So the stories his brothers had told him were true - the ceiling was really enchanted. It looked like the whole room extended upwards into the heavens. "It's bewitched to look like the sky outside, I read about it in _Hogwarts, a History_," whispered a girl somewhere behind him. David paused and craned his neck.

Two behind him in line, a boy who was much bigger than David shoved at the boy between them, pushing everyone forward. "Hurry up, pipsqueaks," the bigger boy grunted.

David was short for his age. He'd been terribly thin until the chemo potions stopped. Now he was pudgy from his mother's doting and looked younger than he was. He didn't like being called little. The boy between them was not as short but still much smaller than the boy who'd shoved them. He looked scared. David's eyes flashed. "Oi! You oaf! Do you fancy your nose when it's still attached to your face?"

The bigger boy, who didn't seem to fully grasp that he was being threatened by someone a head shorter than him, opened his mouth to say something, but at that moment McGonagall cast them a glare so frosty that it shut both boys up tight.

_"Abbot, Hannah!"_

_"HUFFLEPUFF!"_

He wished they would hurry up. Suspense was always, always worse than even the worst knowledge. What house would he be in?

_"Boot, Terry!"  
><em>

_"RAVENCLAW!"_

He knew he was clever. He could be in Ravenclaw with Ben.

_"Finch-Fletchly, Justin!"_

_"HUFFLEPUFF!"_

Hufflepuff wasn't for him. It would have been nice to be with Samson and Avi, but he wasn't like them. He wasn't loyal. Avi trusted everyone implicitly and Samson would never lose faith in a friend no matter _what_ they did to him. David's trust in the world had been shattered one time too many. Loyalty? He picked holes in his best friends. He didn't have many friends to begin with.

_"Finnigan, Seamus!"_

_"GRYFFINDOR!"_

Everybody said he was brave. That was the thing you were supposed to say. But David knew in his heart it wasn't true.

_"Gold, David!"_

He crossed to the school and sat. The hat descended over his eyes.

"Now," whispered a tiny voice in his ear, "you're an interesting one, my lad."

_Do you read my mind?_ thought David, very deliberately.

"In a sort of a way - you know, it's not so much reading a book as it is looking at a painting. Many changing colours and layers. Bright, _very _bright - razor-keen you are. And inquisitive, I see. You would do very well in Ravenclaw."

David let out a relieved breath.

"Except -"

_What_?

"No, no, Ravenclaw won't do at all. Too pensive, too serene. Not for you. There's passion in you. And bitterness. Gryffindor, perhaps? You're brave - reckless, even-"

_Don't say I'm brave! I'm not brave!_

"What makes you so sure?"

_Can't you see it? It's right there. Sitting there in my head. _

"Yes," said the hat. It sounded sad. "There's a gaping hole in the middle of your painting. How long did they give you?"

_Maybe ten years, if the growth doesn't speed up and it doesn't metastasize anywhere else. They can't operate. See? __It's not bravery when you have nothing to lose. _

"Perhaps you are right... Well then. What do you want to do in that time?"

_Change everything. The whole world. It's all rubbish._

"That's a tall order. Are you always so angry?"

_Shouldn't I be? The universe fucked me over. I was **supposed** to be cured.  
><em>

The hat chuckled in his ear.

"SLYTHERIN!"

* * *

><p>He found an empty place at the Slytherin table. The conversation with the hat had left him angry.<p>

Sitting across from him was a pale, blonde-haired boy with pointed features. "Are you the one that yelled at Goyle?" he asked, gesturing to a larger boy on his right side. It was the pusher from the line.

"Yeh, that's me," answered David, carelessly. He wanted the feast to start already.

"Are you a pureblood?" asked the blonde boy.

David had never been asked that before. He mistook it for mere curiosity. "Yes?"

The blonde boy looked impressed. "My name's Draco Malfoy," he said, offering David a handshake.

David got the impression he was supposed to know the name Malfoy already, but he didn't. "David Gold."

"Gold?" Malfoy retracted his hand like he'd been stung. "You're a _Gold_?"

"Something wrong?"

"You said you were a pureblood!"

"I am."

"But aren't your lot - you know - Jewish?" Malfoy said it like it was a dirty word.

"Not pureblood, that makes us?"

Malfoy wrinkled his nose. "He even _talks_ like one."

David felt like he'd been punched in the stomach. "You want to hear me talk like a Jew?" he snapped, reaching for his wand. "_Parash!_"

The stinging hex hit Malfoy on the arm. He yelped. "Keep your Jewy magic away from us! We're not supposed to be doing spells yet - I'll tell Snape-"

"I don't care if you do," sniffed David.

"You will! He's a friend of my father! He'll make you clean the whole dungeons!"

"I don't care! He'll say you're wrong! He's a grown-up! You _can't say_ things like that!" David knew it existed but he'd never heard anyone be so blunt about their hatred. He was red-faced with rage. It wasn't fair. It wasn't_ right. _

"What are you, five?"

"_Tzaraath sh'va__!" _

* * *

><p>"What spell did you use on Mr. Malfoy?"<p>

Professor Snape was very tall and very thin. He had a great hooked nose and black eyes. David liked his face. It had character. Snape didn't smile much - ever, maybe- but David preferred that to people who smiled for no reason.

"A skin-mottling hex, sir. It won't last long."

"How do _you_ know?" Malfoy demanded. His face was blotchy and his voice kept rising in pitch with every word. "It's not a proper spell, is it!? It could last for _ever!_"

"Don't be stupid," hissed David, "I know what I'm doing."

Snape tilted his head. His expression was unreadable. "What is the incantation?"

"I - I'm not supposed to say, sir."

"I believe I am your professor, Gold, and I decide what you are 'supposed to do.'"

"It's a family secret."

"And it would have remained such, if you had not used it on a classmate."

David knew his brothers would have been disappointed. He didn't let it show. "_Tzaraath sh'va_. It means a skin disease. The sh'va makes it short. Temporary. It'll go away."

Snape's eyes glittered. His expression was impossible to read. "And what did Mr. Malfoy do to deserve this fate?"

David said nothing. Malfoy was looking at him with amazement.

"Well, Mr. Gold?"

"That's between him and me." Now that he was thinking straight again he had no desire for Snape's help. Or anyone's. It wasn't right. He would find a way to make it right.

Snape leaned in. "Slytherin is no place for honour among thieves, Mr. Gold."

"I don't care." _Apparently it's no place for a Jew either, and yet here I am._

"In that case, fifteen points shall be taken from Slytherin. Now both of you get out of my sight."

* * *

><p>That night, David Gold learned that Slytherin house was neither fair nor right.<p>

The whole house was angry that someone could have out them in the negative points before classes even started. And, led by Malfoy, the purebloods who ran the dorm had taken a set against him. They ganged up on them, six or seven of them, with wands and hexes. They all seemed to think 'Jew' was an insult.

The first night he curled up underneath his blanket and cried until he slept. By the third night he'd stopped crying at all. By a week, he had gotten his brothers to teach him a warding spell that bounced most hexes away.

By three weeks, none of them dared attack him unless it was more than two on one.

He had been there a month when, alone in the common room very late at night, he heard a sniffling sound, like somebody crying. David put his transfiguration textbook aside and got up, looking for the source of the sound.

Another first-year sat at the foot of the steps in his pyjamas, shivering. His face looked sticky with dry tears. "Who're you?" asked David.

"Tommy - Tommy Tasker."

"What are you doing down here, Tommy Tasker?"

"They won't let me go up." The boy sniffed. "They - they found out I'm M-Muggleborn - and they say I'm making them dirty - by sharing a room-"

David set his jaw. He went up the stairs with his wand out. "Come with me."

In the dorm above, two third-years named Hector Claude and Septimus Morfan were playing exploding snap on Tommy Tasker's bed. They looked up at him. Morfan sniggered. "Well, look. It's the Jew."

"Fat little thing, isn't he? I thought pigs weren't kosher?"

Normally it would have hurt. This time he had a job to do. The insults rebounded off his sense of purpose. They were bigger than him, and more experienced wizards, and there were two of them. How could he possibly win this? He could hardly back down now. Tasker was watching him.

Maybe fighting them wasn't the answer. Maybe he could be more cunning than that. _I'm a Slytherin, aren't I?_

"That's Tasker's bed you're sitting on."

"We know," said Claude.

"He's a Mudblood. He can sleep on the common room floor. That's better than where he belongs."

David saw Tasker flinch in his peripheries. He fixed them with a stare. "Have you ever heard of the Golem?"

They looked like they wanted to laugh, but the quality of that stare was hard to turn away from.

"It was created by Judah Loew ben Bezalel, a Rabbi and a powerful wizard. In Prague, a long time ago, we were kept in ghettos like animals. They slaughtered our children in front of our eyes to keep us from growing too many. Rabbi Loew heard his peoples' misery and he fashioned out of clay a huge form - taller than a giant, and more powerful. Its arms were like tree trunks. Its eyes were empty and dead." As he spoke, David advanced forward with a slow and steady tread. His voice was low and rhythmic, almost musical.

"What are you doing?" demanded Morfan, looking around him uneasily.

"By the light of the flickering flame he read from the _Sefer Yezira, _The Book of Creation. He filled the body of clay with energies of fire, and earth, and into the new clay of its forehead he carved the _Emet_, the Hebrew characters for Truth. Truth holds power over life and death and so he brought breath into the Golem's body."

The flames of the lamps in the room began to flicker. "Stop," said Claude, uneasily.

"The Golem had been created for one purpose: to destroy the oppressors of Rabbi Loew's people. And when it was no longer needed in Prague, it slept, with their blood on its clay hands, until a time when it would be needed again. It has wakened many times. I think perhaps it is needed again."

"Tasker isn't a Jew!"

"You think the Golem only serves Jews?" asked David, serenely. "It defends all peoples who are oppressed and mistreated. Blood, birth, faith - it is all one to the Golem. It sees only the suffering and those who have hurt them. Now. Get off Tasker's bed. And leave him be."

They got off, staring uneasily at anything but David's calm face. "Your - freaky foreign magic doesn't scare me!" declared Claude, but the words were flimsier than a damp paper napkin. The third-years retreated down the steps to the common room, leaving David and Tasker alone.

"How did you do that with - the lights?"

"It's all in the voice," said David. That was old, old magic. The words were not important. He'd adjusted the story of the Golem of Prague more than a little for impact. It wasn't even truly Hebraic magic. His father had always told him that story in English or Yiddish, not Hebrew, but the rising and falling swell of his voice was the same as when he spoke prayers or incantations, and it had the same power. Power to transform perception. Power to influence. Subtle magic, but strong, in the right hands.

"Would - the - the Golem really come here for me?"

David smiled into the flickering light. "He would, Tommy. In fact, he's already here."

* * *

><p><strong>The original Golem story is rather more theologically complex. He may get deeper into it later on. I'm not sure yet. The boys behind Gold in line were Anthony Goldstein, who may appear later, followed by Gregory Goyle. I can alphabet.<strong>

**I'm still brainstorming ideas, so if anyone has any specific elements they'd like to see explored, let me know! And even if you don't, drop me a review!**


	3. The Haunting of Draco Malfoy

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Part 3: Set four months after the Great Battle. Gold tries his hand at haunting. Malfoy wastes a loaf of bread.

* * *

><p>"You know," said Myrtle, "The expression 'I'll sleep when I'm dead' is just an expression."<p>

Gold was curled on the floor under the sinks in the abandoned girls' bathroom. He opened one eye, giving her a torpid look. "You again?" he groaned, and made an ineffectual attempt to bury his face in his robes. Unfortunately his robes, too, were transparent.

"I lived here first," snapped Myrtle. "Aren't the dungeons your place? Why are you _here_ if you don't want to keep me company? Or even talk to me?" She gave a mournful wail.

"Granger might come by later. I don't want to miss her."

"Ugh! Granger this, Granger that!" Myrtle seemed to have forgotten her woe in favour of rage. She kicked him in the stomach. It didn't hurt, but somehow the fact that it didn't hurt was worse than any pain she could have inflicted if they'd both been alive. "What's so special about _Granger_, anyway?"

He raised his head to glower at her, giving up on sleep, for the moment. "She's intelligent, talented, caring - you can stop me anytime - passionate, brave -"

"-Willing to snog you in a loo-"

"Funny enough, I liked her before that happened."

"Then why'd you stop her?"

"Because. She'd have regretted it."

"So now you regret it instead."

Gold glowered. Given everything - all the warning signs and ticking clocks that snuffed out that weird little flicker of tension between him and Hermione Granger before it could ever kindle anything - he should not have regretted nipping the whole thing in the bud. He regretted it anyway. A weakness of character, perhaps, that irritating human business of needing to be needed.

"If you always knew there wasn't a hope, why d'you keep _doing_ this to yourself?"

"Because I'm inherently stubborn and self-destructive and because love is voluntary pain," Gold snapped, savagely and without thought. "Can't you just let me _pretend_ for a bit?!"

Myrtle raised an eyebrow at him. Gold was very aware she had ulterior motives, but he couldn't quite escape her point, no matter how hard he tried - he sounded pathetic. It wasn't like him at all to sit in complacency and do nothing, deluding himself, waiting.

"You're dead, David. You've got to move on." She nudged him with her foot again. "Stop moping around my toilet on the off chance Granger might come by. Moping's _my_ bit and I'm better at it than you are. Go out and do something healthy."

He got to his feet, still scowling. "What do ghosts consider healthy?"

"How about a spot of nice haunting?"

* * *

><p>Malfoy Manor was in disrepair. A few months since the Great Battle and it looked quite abandoned, the once-grand gardens gone to seed. But it wasn't <em>wholly<em> abandoned. One occupant still remained. Gold found Draco Malfoy in the study, bent over an old volume of what looked like family history.

Somehow, despite everything that'd happened - the fall from grace of so many pureblood families in the wake of the war, the complete ruination of the Malfoy name - Gold had expected to find him just as he'd been at school, well-kept and richly garbed and full of his own supposed superiority. He was dead wrong. Ha-ha. Maybe it was in a ghost's nature to hold onto the way things had been when they were alive... He would have to ask Myrtle.

Malfoy did not look like he had in school. He wore an opulent but wine-stained dressing gown with the sleeves pulled carefully over his forearms. His hair was wild and ill-kept and he had not shaved in days. There was a glass of blood-coloured wine at his elbow and a glassy, feverish look in his eyes.

Gold made himself comfortable on a desk behind Malfoy, and waited. He had all the time in the world. He was still getting used to that part.

Malfoy read for a long time, drinking intermittent sips, murmuring very quietly to himself. From where Gold was sitting it sounded mostly like names - those old, grand-sounding Roman names that so often characterized the truly old pureblood lines, or so Potter had told him. Malfoy's ancestry, no doubt.

Finally he seemed to find something in that book that upset him so much that he got to his feet, cursing - and found himself face to face with a ghost.

"Boo," said Gold, lazily.

"You." Malfoy's face darkened. "Why're _you_ here? Come to see me at my worst? Taunt me like I always taunted you?"

Gold shrugged. "You never taunted me very effectively."

"I made your life hell," said Malfoy, looking dubious.

_You did at first_, Gold wanted to say. Somewhere in him there was still a bruised eleven-year-old who couldn't stand to hear his faith turned into an insult. But the rest of him was too prone to pity. And Malfoy was torturing himself. He didn't need any more guilt on his shoulders. There was already plenty to be guilty about. "It takes more than the likes of you to make a victim out of me, boychik. If anything, you toughened me up. I was a very spoiled child."

"Then what are you doing here?" asked Malfoy, with the barest hint of relief.

"Well, actually, I came here to haunt you, because apparently that's a thing I do now, but you look haunted enough already."

Malfoy looked down at himself. For a moment Gold thought he would be angry, but then he seemed to run out of energy utterly. Malfoy slumped back into the chair, palming the dregs of his drink. "I've been more or less let off. I should be happy."

He obviously wasn't, so Gold waited for more.

"Not even house arrest! I could go out and do anything I wanted now. Except. Who can I look in the eye? The whole wizarding world knows." Malfoy had begun to pace. "Potter. Potter had a hand in my getting off. Saved my life in the fiendfyre. I owe him a debt. Bad enough they destroyed us - they have to insult us with mercy!"

The words rang with disgust. But Gold knew it was not directed at Potter, not really. "'Us' - your family?"

"They've transferred my father from Azkaban to St. Mungo's. A lot of things at once. Fear-madness. Dementors. Drinking." He stared at the wine glass with disgust in his eyes. "My mother's there with him now. She thinks he's dying."

"I'd say I was sorry, but your father's an evil little-"

The glass smashed against dark oak panelling, directly behind Gold's head. "I KNOW!" roared Malfoy.

Gold hadn't been consciously trying to provoke him, just running his mouth off. In retrospect he realized it was a horrible thing to say. Him and his fat mouth - Malfoy hadn't been wrong about that part. Gold stared at him.

"He was my _father_. You don't have to tell me what kind of man he was. I _lived_ with him, I lived _under_ him and I know. Better. Than anyone." Malfoy looked demented. "We chose the wrong side, you didn't, well done you. Hah. As if it was ever a _choice__._" Malfoy picked up a book from the desk and waved it under Gold's nose. "I read your bloody Sartre. Remember? When I asked if you could turn back time and you said no, but I could change the future? Did it change, Gold? Did it?!" He gestured at the ruined study around him.

"That part was up to you, Malfoy."

"_No it wasn't! _Do you think there was a simple moment when I could have said 'no, this isn't what I want' and turned away?"

"I think that was every moment." Gold's eyes lingered on Malfoy's hands. They were shaking. He looked more and more fevered. "How much have you had to drink?" he asked, quietly.

"Too much. Or not enough. I would offer you one but I don't see how you could drink it."

Gold was surprised even by this small gesture of civility. "I would accept your hospitality, if I could," he answered. "Moses, I miss food and drink."

"How did you die?" asked Malfoy, with ill-concealed fascination.

"Your dear Auntie Bella was a little too quick for me."

Malfoy was quiet for a moment. "...I don't know what one is supposed to say to the recently deceased."

Gold shrugged. "I'm not that bothered about it. I walked in knowing I wouldn't walk out, I chose my path."

Malfoy's face darkened again. "You and your Sartre and your paths. Maybe it's true for _your_ lot. Your snakes, Granger, Potter, all of you - you all act so high and mighty just because you happened to be on the winning side."

"We were on the morally right side, Malfoy, and it happened to be the side that won."

"No! _Listen _to me. My father was scum and my mother was weak and it's been that way for _generations_." Now he picked up the large tome of ancestors he had been reading when Gold first arrived. "Doesn't matter how far back you go. Dark magic and Grindlewald and the Goblin Rebellion. It's in my _blood_, Gold. My family - everything I knew - what's bred in the bone will out in the flesh. You think you chose, you made such better choices than me just because you were the 'good Slytherins' but I have seen your _family_."

For the first time, there was an unabashed and unhidden jealousy in Draco's voice. Gold had a sudden, clear memory of arriving home on the Hogwarts express after his fourth year to be greeted on the platform by his whole family - his parents crying with joy the way they always did, his brothers hugging him as though their arms could keep him tethered to the mortal world. All so grateful that he'd lived another year that they suffocated him with love. At the time he had not noticed the blonde boy get off the train behind him to be greeted only by an unsmiling servant.

"There's things you don't know about my family," said Gold.

"I know they opposed the Dark Lord." And the words that went unsaid, written across Malfoy's face, were, _and they really loved you_.

Both true. Both taken for granted. It seldom occurred to Gold that parents could fail their children. He hesitated. "What about Pettyfer?" he asked, at last. It was painful to mention her. She'd always been his favourite snake. "Didon Pettyfer is a relative of yours. Her family were bad all the way through. She changed."

"Her father was low in the ranks. Unimportant. I was being groomed for the Death Eaters as long as I can remember. The Dark Lord-" He'd begun to shake more now. "He wanted me to - he would have killed me - "

Gold got to his feet, on pure instinct, thinking only to steady Malfoy before he fell and hurt himself. Then realized he couldn't. Malfoy looked at him with red-rimmed, stricken eyes. "My parents - he was going to - and I failed him-"

"Alright. Sit. You're still alive, Draco. He's gone."

Malfoy collapsed into his chair, hyperventilating. "I took the mark. I took it. It's too late."

"He's gone," Gold repeated, squatting on his haunches to look Malfoy in the eye. "The mark doesn't mean anything now."

But Malfoy wouldn't meet his eyes. "It's in my skin. My blood." He'd never sounded so helpless.

Gold slapped him. His hand passed through Malfoy's face, but the chill of it was enough to shock Malfoy into silence. "Come with me."

"Wh-what?"

Gold had already started to drift from the study. "Do you have any bread?"

"I thought you couldn't eat."

"It's not for me."

Malfoy found a loaf of bread, hard and stale. He was confused and pale, but this new confusion had replaced his hysteria.

Gold brought him outside, to the small decorative stream that ran the boundaries of Malfoy Manner. Then he stopped him dead. "If you could turn back time. What would you do?"

Malfoy's voice was quiet, but he did not hesitate. "Erase my connection with the Dark Lord. Refuse the mark. Run far, far away."

"You're still alive, Malfoy. You have time left. Take the bread and tear it into small pieces."

He did as he was told. "Is this... more Jew magic?"

"There's nothing magical about it. This is Tashlikh. The casting off of sins. Technically it should be done on Rosh Ha'Shanah, but this might be a special case."

"So the pieces are the sins."

"You cast them into the water. I'll say the prayer, I think I know it by heart still."

"As if it could be so easy," sneered Malfoy, when Gold had finished reciting. "This is meaningless superstition." But he began to tear off pieces of bread and toss them into the water.

"Gestures have what meanings we give them. That mark is nothing but ink and a summoning spell. But belief makes it evil. If you can believe in the one you can believe in the other. Or you can believe in neither, and attempt to forgive yourself not because of this or that symbol but because you know you want to change."

"Why are you doing this, Gold." His voice was so dulled, it did not even sound like a question.

"Fucked if I know," answered Gold. "It passes the time? I'm dead. Eternity is a while."

* * *

><p>He came back a week later, and found Malfoy composed and well-dressed. He was directing the restoration of the mansion grounds. Old Lucius, it seemed, had pulled through.<p>

"Boo."

"Sod off, you fat lump, or I'll have the Bloody Baron pay a visit."

"Glad to see things are back to normal around here. Still calling teacher on the other children?"

"Still mooning after Granger?"

"Well, naturally. Ghosts have inherently static natures. The dead are not really capable of change. Unlike the living."

Malfoy threw the copy of Jean-Paul Sartre's __Existentialism and Humanism_ _through Gold's head.

* * *

><p><strong>I am not, actually, a fan of Sartre at all, but Gold very much would be. Their debate is ultimately one of existentialism vs. determinism and the only person to ever come anywhere near an answer that I find satisfactory was good ol' Kant.<br>**

**Still up for suggestions!**

**Drop me a review!**


	4. A Fitting Tribute

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Part 4: Just before Christmas in their fifth year, David and Hermione do something the elves really appreciate. Gold is not always a serious intellectual and Hermione is her father's daughter.

* * *

><p>It didn't surprise Hermione even a little bit that he could sing. She probably could have guessed from the way he spoke his Hebrew incantations, if it had ever occurred to her to wonder before now. If anything, it sickened her a little bit, because she was trying to put to bed the last few irritating traces of the mind-crush she'd had on him and Gold, in his typical contrary way, was making it incredibly difficult. Probably it wasn't on purpose, but you never really knew with him.<p>

What did surprise her was his choice of song.

"_Ooh, darlin', give me one more chance-_"

"The Jackson Five? Really?"

"What?"

Hermione had half-expected him to get embarrassed when he realized he was singing aloud, as most people would. Somehow he'd managed to make _her_ feel foolish instead. They were walking the secret passageway that led to the kitchens, carrying bags and bags of small woolen hats. "I... would have expected... I don't know, something more complex."

"Don't slag the Jackson Five, Granger. Tiny MJ had more soul in his prepubescent little feet than most artists have in their whole bodies."

"Alright, I'll rephrase that - something less wholesome."

"Less wholesome? I could do you some Spice Girls."

The mental image reduced Hermione to giggles. "You're kidding."

His poker face was impeccable. She shoved him. "Come on. You're far too much an intellectual to be caught dead singing Muggle bubblegum pop."

"I _like_ bubblegum pop."

"Sure you do. You're testing me. You just want me to admit to liking the Spice Girls so you can feel superior. You probably like Nirvana and that sort of alt rock that's very smart but also difficult to listen to."

"I'd love for you to admit to liking the Spice Girls," said Gold, looking very earnest. "Then I wouldn't be the only one. I had my angsty Nirvana phase in third year."

Merlin, maybe he _wasn't _ kidding. "I... they're a very guilty pleasure."

"None of my pleasures are ever guilty," said Gold, "life's too short."

Hermione thought that explained a lot about him. "I'm surprised you listen to Muggle music in the first place, honestly."

"Why, because I'm ostensibly a pureblood?"

She hoped that didn't seem too awful. "Well... _yes_. Most purebloods don't seem to know a thing about Muggles."

Gold laughed. "Granger, you overestimate the wizarding world. We don't have enough _people_ to have an independent arts scene. We're parasitic on Muggles for ninety per cent of our culture and not at all fond of admitting it."

"What about the Wyrd Sisters? Or that, ah, what's her name, that awful Warbeck woman?"

"Oh, sure, we have a few musical acts, but they're derivative. 1960s Muggle hippie counterculture? We nicked the rock'n'roll sound, dark magic became an acceptable, or at least a popular, song topic, the popularity of recreational potions skyrocked and wizards started cutting their hair very short."

Hermione snorted. "Shouldn't that be growing their hair long?"

"Neyn, they'd always had long hair. We figured out that the Muggles were changing their styles and then we got confused and did it backwards. But we got the core of it right - it was a break from tradition. And now it's considered terribly posh and old-fashioned. Professor Snape's the only wizard under sixty I've ever seen wear long hair. What was I saying?"

"One mention of the word 'hair' and you're totally derailed."

"You love my hair. Don't lie."

Hermione wasn't entirely sure he was wrong. She wasn't going to give him the satisfaction of admitting it. "You were saying about magical music being parasitic."

"Well, the wizard artists all sort of slap you in the face with their magic-ness, don't they? D'you really think every song would be loaded with spell references if we had a thriving musical industry?"

"It has to make a great point about being magic for the sake of its own identity."

"As do we all. Magical music acts try very hard to remind you because when you get down to it, most of us aren't even aware that what we're listening to is Muggle in origin. It all gets played on the radio, and we don't pay attention. Take Malfoy, for example. He's still very much in his angsty Nirvana phase."

"How d'you know that?"

"I share a dormitory segment with him." Gold made a face. "I think I probably got into bad Muggle pop in the first place just because it irritates him."

Hermione knew she should not encourage him to pick any more fights, but she didn't trust herself not to laugh at the thought of Malfoy's face in reaction to 'Wannabe', so she held her tongue and changed the topic. "So if most wizards don't even realize, why do you know?"

"My family likes to keep one foot in the Muggle world," said Gold, clearly smug over his own culturedness.

Hermione raised an eyebrow at him. "So you know your Muggle music pretty well."

"I'd like to think so."

"Are you familiar with the Grateful Dead?"

He looked at her blankly. "Er-"

"The Who."

"Who?"

"David Bowie?"

"Of course I know _Bowie_."

"Because he was, in fact, a wizard."

"Ah. Aaaactually that explains a great deal."

"Tom Waits?"

"No?"

"Ben Folds."

"Why are all these people named after verbs?"

"Simon & Garfunkel?"

"I knew a Garfunkel in Hebrew School."

"So you don't actually know anything about the history of Muggle music at all."

"I know every song the Beatles ever wrote!"

"So do things that live under rocks." Hermione had shown her true colours; despite her occasional dalliances into pop (a girl needed an outlet sometimes), she was, in truth, a Classic Rocker. It was the fault of her father, who'd supplemented her flute lessons with a thorough grounding in psychedelia. He was of the true hippie generation. It was one of the few things left that they had at all in common.

"Alright, because I'm very kind, I'll give you one more chance. Bob Dylan?"

Gold grinned. "Now _him_ I know."

Hermione wasn't taking any chances. "Prove it."

"_When the rain is blowin' in your face_  
><em> And the whole world is on your case<em>-"

Bollocks. Damn him to hell, him and his strangely raspy, tuneful voice. She stared very hard at the ground ahead of her feet.

"_I could offer you a warm embrace-_"

"Gold?" Hermione's voice was urgent.

He stopped singing, opening his eyes. "Yeah?"

"You need to not sing that song."

"Why?"

"Because I might do something stupid, like snog you blind, and we both agreed that was a bad idea."

"Oh." They were both embarrassed now, though for different reasons. The passageway went silent. Hermione contemplated her shoes with such intensity that she was half-certain they'd burst into flames. It wasn't irrational, it wasn't her fault - surely anyone on earth would be at least a _little_ attractive while they were singing that song. And it suited him a little too well. _You ain't seen nothin' like me yet._

Just as she was beginning to be certain the silence would kill her, he quietly began another song.

"_Come, gather 'round, people, wherever you roam  
>And admit that the waters around you have grown<em>  
><em> And accept it that soon you'll be drenched to the bone<em>-"

Ah, yes. That was why they were down here, wasn't it? Change. Hermione laughed, and joined in.

* * *

><p>They did not stop when they arrived at the kitchens, tickled the pear to enter, hefted the bags of clothes through the portrait-hole.<p>

"_The line it is drawn, t__he curse it is cast_-"

The elves looked up almost as one from their work, and blanched to see Hermione's face. They knew her, they knew it was her who had left the woolen hats about the common room for them to find. Only Dobby wore a smile.

"Miss shouldn't be here!"

"Back to her house, please, miss, we are not wanting-"

For a moment, Hermione was stung and intimidated by their stares and wanted nothing so much as to slink back to her common room and forget that she had made herself so hated. But Gold was still singing beside her, and it gave her strength.

"_The slow one now will later be fast_  
><em> As the present now will later be past<em>-"

"We are not wanting clothes! Take them back!"

Without stopping to explain they made for the great woodstove at one end of the room, which heated the many ovens. Gold opened the door, releasing a wave of dry heat.

"_The order is rapidly fadin'_  
><em> And the first one now will later be last<em>-"

One-by-one they tipped the bags of clothes - all Hermione's weeks of work - into the fire.

"-_For the times they are a-changin'_."

The elves burst into applause.

Hermione couldn't remember the last time she had been applauded. Pink from the praise and the heat of the flame, she smiled at her feet. She raised her voice over the cheers. She had prepared what she was going to say, remembering everything Gold had told her. "I'm very sorry I didn't listen to what you all wanted - Miss Granger is very sorry. She's going to do things differently now, and listen to the people she wants to help."

A little bow, and she stepped back, amid cheers and high, squeaking whistles. Gold, to her surprise, was clapping too.

Dobby bobbed over to them like a helium-filled balloon. "That was a very very good speech, miss. Dobby is sure they will like miss more now. And miss did not say 'I'!"

Hermione glowed.

"What do the pamphlets say, Dobby?"

"They say, many house elves are not treated like proper creatures, Mister Gold sir, even though we are very powerful! And that it is not right! And that He Who Must Not Be Named thinks elves are scum and so we must prove him wrong!"

"Mister Gold likes the sound of that," said Gold, with relish.

"Dobby thinks the next step is to remind elves they serve better when they are rested and content."

"Yes, Dobby - to take care of their masters they must take care of themselves! Tell them that!"

The little elf cleared his throat. "Dobby would like a favour in return for helping."

Hermione had to admit to herself - even with all her pleas for elves to demand payment, it wasn't what she had expected. "Er - anything you wish, if it's in my power. Er. In Miss Granger's power."

"How many are there in S.P.E.W.?" He enunciated each letter. Nobody had ever done that before.

"Well - Harry and Ron are sort of - " she slumped in defeat. "Really it's just us two."

That seemed to please Dobby very well. "Dobby would like to be the president of S.P.E.W., Miss Granger."

"Of a two-person club?"

"Dobby would rather familiarize himself with the leadership role in a low-stakes setting, miss."

Behind her, Gold stifled a snort of laughter. Hermione fought not to let her consternation show up on her face. Give up presidency of S.P.E.W.? The group was her brainchild, even if it was her sadly misshapen brainchild.

But she could hardly keep the role of leadership in elf rights out of the hands of the elves. And they were a serious social justice organization. She shook his tiny hand. "Agreed, Dobby. I'd be proud to call you the president of our group."

"Does Dobby get a special badge?" He pointed to the S.P.E.W. badge pinned to his chest, comically oversized on his tiny body.

"Don't see why not," said Gold, nudging Hermione.

"I'll see to making one," said Hermione.

"Can Dobby keep this badge too?"

"Sure?"

"Dobby likes badges."

* * *

><p>In the end, Hermione even showed willing by eating a few of the Christmassy tea-cakes the elves brought them. Gold showed rather more than willing, and they left with a handful wrapped up for later, and a steaming mug of cocoa each. Ten minutes later they were walking along the bridge. A heavy, silent snow had begun to fall.<p>

"Is it weird?" Hermione asked, out of the blue. "Being Jewish while the rest of us get excited over Christmas?"

"As a kid I felt left-out," Gold admitted. "Think I felt left out of most things, really. Now I'm too proud," he added, with a wry grin. "I don't want your stupid over-commercialized holiday."

"What about Hannukah?"

"Hannukah really isn't very important. American Jews blew it out of proportion so their kiddlies wouldn't get sad."

"Still, though - do you ever wish it got paid a bit more attention here?" She'd been thinking about this a while. Ever since the first Christmas decorations had begun to go up and she'd noticed a scowl on his face.

Gold shook his head. "You don't need another cause to champion, Granger, you've done enough for me."

They paused at the center of the bridge, sitting with their backs up against the stone to enjoy the view. The river gulley that ran through the Hogwarts grounds was nothing short of magnificent in the falling snow, a great tunnel of falling flakes that seemed to extend forever into the distance. Hermione shivered. Gold's massive, well-cut pea coat was a far better match for the weather than her light cloak.

"Here, lean against me, I'm warm," Gold suggested.

Hermione bit her lip, and shifted to rest her head and shoulders against his broad torso.

_Merlin_, he was comfy. Warm and soft. Gold put an arm loosely around her shoulders - holding in even more heat - and tucked his chin over her head. They sat in silence, their breath steaming in the cold air.

Within minutes, Hermione was asleep.

Gold didn't move for a very long time. He wondered if heartbreak was supposed to feel this peaceful.

* * *

><p>"Hey, Gold, did you see?"<p>

Anthony Goldstein was the only other member of the D.A. who'd ever seemed vaguely put off by the room of requirement's sudden growths of holly and mistletoe. They were, in fact, extremely distantly related, descended from the same family of jewelers in the same tiny schtetl about three hundred years back. It wasn't enough to make them want to have anything to do with each other, because as far as Gold was concerned Anthony was a precious little swot, but it was enough to keep them coolly pleasant to each other.

"See what?"

"There's a menorah in the Great Hall. Big one."

"Damn it, Granger."

And when Hannukah actually started, a different audio tape - charmed so that they would work in a wizard radio, Gold had _n_o _idea_ how she had done that - showed up in his dorm room every evening.

It turned out The Who were really really good. And Malfoy hated them almost as much as he hated the Spice Girls.

* * *

><p><strong>This one was very much inspired by the Only1Noah cover of "Make You Feel My Love" feat. Jonathan Korszyk. If you can get through that and not feel a bit like Hermione does, well, you've a stronger heart than mine.<strong>

**Ahh, the '90s. You were not a good time for music.**

**To be honest I think there's a tiny part in all of us that still honestly likes the Spice Girls.**


	5. The Soldiers of Dumbledore's Army, pt 1

Hello again! I'll probably be updating with a little less frequency, as my school life gets busier, but I'll try to keep posts regular nonetheless.

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Part 5: Set in year seven. Neville Longbottom shows his Gryffindor side. David Gold shows his Slytherin side.

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><p>He had never expected anything in particular of Neville Longbottom. Clumsy, hapless, under-confident, a sheep of a boy, without initiative or ambition, and not even a strong wizard besides - nothing special at all. Gold didn't believe in fate, but he did believe in probability, and by that token Longbottom was doomed for mediocrity just as surely as Hermione was destined for greatness.<p>

He'd been so wrong.

The house allegiances had begun to break down. Gold was not in the habit of gratitude - it seemed the world owed him something, in reparation - and so it seemed not so much a blessing as a slap in the face that it took the fucking Death Eaters to make the school finally forget its colours and band together.

And even so, the Slytherins were still largely left out. The four tables of the Great Hall were a sea of variegated red, blue and yellow neckties, but the green was almost all pooled off to one side.

He and the other snakes sat at the Gryffindor table today, aside from a few scattered members with friends amid the Huffs and the Ravens. Gold was doing his Arithmancy homework while he ate, and getting a lot of odd looks for it.

Seamus peered at the book upside-down, trying to make sense of a number chart. "Can you predict the future with that?"

Seamus was one of the few Gryffindors who didn't merely tolerate Gold, but actually seemed to like him. It was... a refreshing novelty. Gold glanced up through his brows. "Sort of. It's all about probabilities. Taking odds from past events, determining if-then likelihood scenarios and applying them to future events."

"So what does it predict?"

"Well, nothing's certain, but it seems very likely that the Chudley Cannons will lose their game tomorrow, Slytherin will win the house cup, and there'll be blood in the halls of Hogwarts before the year is up," said Gold, his lips thinning.

Seamus returned his grim look. "But we knew all that, didn't we."

At that moment - as if to verify Gold's prediction - a Gryffindor third-year came barrelling through the double doors into the Great Hall, his eyes wide and frightened. Hot on his heels was Alecto Carrow.

"_-Contraband!_"

"Well, he's in for it," whispered Seamus, wincing. Most of the Great Hall had turned their heads downwards, making a point of not watching.

The Gryffindor third-year skidded to a halt in front of the Gryffindor table, his exits cut off, suddenly realizing Carrow was too close for him to blend in amongst the line of red ties. He covered his face. "-Don't! Don't curse me - I don't have anything-"

"Liar! I saw it!"

"I don't - It's nothing!"

She flicked her wand. The Gryffindor's pockets suddenly turned themselves inside out, emptying quill stubs and gobstones onto the stone floor. And finally - a blank piece of parchment.

"See?! Nothing!"

But Carrow did not seem to see. Her smile was the grin of a shark who has scented blood. "_Accio_." The parchment flew into her hand.

Across from Gold, Seamus had gone white as a sheet.

Carrow tapped it with her wand. "_Finite incantatem._" Like a butterfly emerging from a cocoon, the parchment unfolded into the glossy pages of _The Quibbler_. _C_ontraband of the highest order. In the days of Umbridge it had been easy enough to keep them hidden, and they travelled the school like wildfire. But Snape was smarter than that. They had become precious and dangerous.

"Shite," whispered Seamus. "Oh, _shite_ - that bloody idiot, transfiguring it never works any more - _Gold, we have to do something, Neville wrote an article in that issue and if she sees it she'll torture him-_"

"_Why didn't he use a pseudonym?!_" Gold demanded, in the same whisper.

"_He did, Neville's bollocks at pseudonyms -_" All at once, Seamus pulled out his wand and got to his feet. "_Stupefy! Accio Quibbler!_"

Alecto Carrow's eyes crossed in her head. She folded to the floor like a limp rag-doll. The magazine struggled out of her grip and fluttered its way over to them. Gold cast a wary glance to the head table, ready as always to duck and cover, but Snape was, once again, absent. He hadn't been at a meal in weeks. Maybe he felt the arrows of hatred directed at him by every student in that hall - or maybe he simply didn't need to feed like a human any more. As it was, their only witnesses at the head table were McGonnagall and Flitwick, who hastily pretended to be deep in conversation and not looking, nosiree.

Seamus shoved _The Quibbler_ between the pages of Gold's Arithmancy textbook. "Here, take that and keep it safe, alright?"

Gold nodded, and glanced at Alecto. "She won't stay down long."

"No she won't." Seamus met his eyes. Both boys knew exactly what the other was thinking.

"Want to be anywhere other than here?" Gold offered.

"Bloody right I do." And Seamus bolted from the hall, with Gold in tow.

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><p><em>What are Muggles Really Like?<em>

_a brief treatise, by N. Longshanks DeVille_

_Many of us have been told by teachers, authorities and even our own families that Muggles are dirty, stupid and ignorant. We've been told that Muggles are responsible for oppressing wizards throughout history and barring us from our proper place at the top of the social order. Nothing could be further from the truth._

_Let's start with 'stupid'. I know 'stupid'. I've lived with 'stupid' every day of my life and I know it when I see it. Have you ever ventured into Muggle London? We all have, at some point, even the purest of purebloods. Have you looked up at the tall skyscrapers coated with glass, the trains that whoosh by every few minutes, faster than any broomstick, the beautiful palaces and great buildings? Have you gone into the Royal London Hospital and seen the strange beeping machines and the not-potion mixtures that make people better? Have you gone into the British Museum and seen the works of art on display? Have you turned on a Muggle radio and heard music fill your ears? Can you even begin to guess how a Muggle radio works?_

_We can do all these things very easily, so we huff and feel superior. But Muggles have done all that __**without magic**__. Think about that. What pushes that train along? How do you help a patient whose arm has been crushed if you can't just spell the bone back together? How do you make music come out of a little box without tiny people inside to play it? You have to use your head. And that's what Muggles do. That's what they have always done. And we wizards get so caught up in magicking our way out of a problem that we sometimes forget to think. Imagine if we learned to think the way Muggles do - the marvellous things we could create. We have so much to learn from Muggles._

_What about the music I mentioned, and the art? Wizards can do that without magic, I hear you say - they often do. And that is exactly it. When it comes to ways of expressing all our deepest emotions, wizards are exactly like Muggles, right down to the kinds of music we play, the things we think are beautiful and the ways we like to spend our free time. _

_So what are Muggles really like? Well, if you've ever known a Muggle, really known one, you'll know they're no different than us, not really. Not in the ways that matter. They feel all the same feelings, all the sorrows and joys and fears. They have families they love, dreams they work for and hopes they cherish. And they deserve to be treated with the same respect we give each other._

_Muggles aren't dirty - they aren't stupid - and if they are ignorant, it's only because we've kept them that way. So stand in solidarity with the Muggles that He Who Must Not Be Named abuses and persecutes. They are really no different from your brother or sister. _

"So what do you think?" asked Neville, anxiously, sitting cross-legged beside him against the cold stone wall of the sixth floor corridor and fidgeting with his shirtsleeves. They were taking a risk, reading it in the corridors, but Gold's dormitory was every bit as dangerous and more. He'd been tching to read it ever since the incident in the Great Hall. It was certainly more than enough to get Neville tortured again.

"It's good," said Gold, "Really good. Apart from the penname, which is, as Finnigan said, bollocks."

A sudden sound met their ears - a yell, followed by a scream.

"What was that?" asked Neville.

Gold got quickly to his feet, transfigured his copy of _The Quibbler _into a text on weight loss, folded it up and tucked it into his breast pocket. They both already knew what it was.

They followed the sound down the corridor, peering round a corner. Amycus Carrow had a pretty fourth-year Hufflepuff by her hair. Nearby, Alecto Carrow watched and snickered while a handsome Slytherin named Gideon Rowle looked on.

"Say it!"

She was crying silent tears, but no words left her mouth.

"Say it! Mudblood scum! Don't deserve to be touched by a pureblood - you ought to be kissin' Rowle's feet! Say you want it!"

Gold choked on his own disgust. Pressed against the wall beside him, Neville caught Gold's eye. There was steel in the Gryffindor's face. _'I'll make a distraction_,' he mouthed, '_you get her out_.'

Gold nodded. Neville mouthed the count of three, then aimed a spell around the corner. "_P'tzatza piel_!"

The spell went off like a bomb, spewing thick, heavily scented blue smoke on every dimension. Confused yells erupted around him. It was not a spell the Carrows knew well enough to defuse. It would hang there in the air for hours. Gold rounded the corner - he couldn't see a hand in front of his own face for smoke - grabbed what he prayed for dear life was the girl's wrist, and ran. Behind him he could hear Neville throwing hexes, buying them time.

His prayer seemed to have been answered. When they rounded the corner again and cleared most of the smoke he saw that she was running with him, tears streaming from her face.

They made it as far as the sixth floor staircase before Gold started to pant for breath. He could hear the Carrows' angry mutterings in pursuit, amplified by the winding stone corridors. Gold turned to her and took out his wand. "_Avar lev."_

Even to his eyes, she seemed to disappear_ - _not from view, but from notice. It was hard to look directly at her. "They - won't see you," he breathed, "Don't be afraid."

"You!" Carrow had his wand aimed at Gold's chest. Behind him came Alecto, dragging a _Petrificus totalis-_bound Neville Longbottom by his hair, and Gideon Rowle close at her heel. "That one - the fat one - Longbottom's crony! He must have set off the smoke!"

Gold wanted to say _I'm his comrade, not his crony_, but he wasn't sure it was totally true any more. He looked up at the Carrows with expertly-feigned startlement and confusion. It took a fight to keep the last traces of breathlessness from his voice. "What? What'd I do?"

He already knew it wouldn't be enough. They knew him by now as an outspoken, Muggle-loving troublemaker. "You've always done something," said Amycus. "You're too close to where it happened. Had to be involved somehow."

"Show us your wand," demanded Alecto.

"Why? I haven't _done _anything, I don't even know what's going on."

Her eyes flashed. "_Crucio_!"

It was like cold needles, a searing and freezing pain that crept along the lines of his bones, filled his stomach and his veins and poured like lava into his skull. Gold slumped to his knees, clutching his head. And then it was over, as quickly as it had started. They didn't dare curse a pureblood for too long, it seemed.

"Wand," Alecto repeated.

Gold held out his wand. Alecto touched the tip of her own wand to his.

"_Priori incantato_."

The last echo of a summoning spell, used hours ago, breathed out of the point of contact. _Priori incantato_ only delivered Latinate spells. "See?" Gold demanded breathlessly, snatching his wand back. His head was ringing with pain. "I- didn't have _anything_ to do with any smoke bomb."

For a moment the Carrows seemed to flounder. Then Alecto smiled. "So, not the wand... a Weasley's product, then?"

"Turn out your pockets."

Gold turned out the pockets of his robes. Loose change, the stub of a candle, and an India rubber. Nothing else.

Amycus poked him in the chest with his wand, right above the folded-up and transfigured _Quibbler_. The shape of the paper was just visible through his robes. "What's this?"

"Nothing."

"Oh, I very much doubt that, boy."

Gold set his jaw and fixed his gaze on his shoes. "It's private."

"Not any more it's not. Give it here."

Reluctantly, Gold took the paper from his pocket and handed it over. Amycus Carrow unfolded the page with a delighted laugh. "'_Spell Yourself Skinny!_'" he read. "'_A wizard's guide to rapid and effective weight loss!_'"

Gold said nothing, keeping his eyes down.

"_'Sick of being mocked? Low on self-esteem? We have the solution!_'"

"I don't want it any more," mumbled Gold. He could hear his heartbeat in his ears. _N. Longshanks DeVille? Really, Neville?_

"Ohh, I think you should have it," said Amycus, grinning the grin of a predator, and tucked it back into Gold's pocket with a mocking little pat. From the size of that grin, it was obvious he had no intention to let Gold forget about this little incident in future. "Right Rowle?"

Rowle was too busy laughing to reply.

"Come on then - leave Piggy to it. Let's get this one to the dungeons." Amycus gestured to the captive and frozen Neville, whose eyes - the only part of him free to move - sought out Gold and widened. Gold met his gaze and winked.

"_Gelah gviyah_," Gold murmured, when they were gone. The fourth-year Hufflepuff girl suddenly became visible again. "You alright?" he asked, all trace of earlier embarrassment gone.

"Er- yeah - they didn't hurt me, they just..."

"Rowle thinks he can have anything he wants. Or anybody."

She nodded, knuckling tears out of her eyes. "You - you two shouldn't have h-helped me... He's not going to stop..."

"He will if he can't get to you. We're not beat yet. There's still good people around."

"I don't see them," she whispered. There was despair in her voice.

Gold reached into his breast pocket and took out the folded paper again. A tap of his wand, and it transfigured itself back into _The Quibbler_. "Here," he said, holding it out to her, "have a read of that."

She stared at it. "It's - a _Quibbler_? But they're really rare, I couldn't - It takes ages to get one - How did you-?"

Gold tapped his nose and grinned. "Lessons from Slytherins. Lure them off the scent. Normally, Carrow finds anything in your pockets -"

"-He checks to see if it's transfigured."

"The trick is to find something that already seems embarrassing enough that he won't question it. Something he'd never want to hold onto himself. He loves humiliation, our Amycus - almost as much as his sister loves pain."

The tears had stopped. She flipped through the magazine. "That's not going to work too many more times, though."

"I don't need it to," said Gold, with a shrug, "I've read that through already. It's dangerous keeping it around, in my house. Take it to Hufflepuff and spread the word, alright? Dumbledore's Army aren't going down without a fight."

"You're in the D.A.?"

Gold nodded deeply- almost a bow. "To hell and back, I am. Proud to answer to Longbottom in Potter's stead. _Help will always be given at Hogwarts to those who ask for it_."

"...Thank you." She clutched the magazine to her chest.

"It's not me that needs thanks - I'm not the one being dragged to the dungeons by the Carrows." He let out a distracted breath, running a hand through his styled hair and inadvertently ruining it. "We should have had the opposite roles, Longbottom's quicker than me and I'm better at spells - but no, he had to be the martyr and get himself caught instead of me." Somehow he was both deeply grateful and annoyed at the same time. "I'd better go get him out of there. If I can. Bloody Gryffindors."

The fourth-year looked him in the eye. Her gaze was a steady blue. "I'm coming with you."

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><p><strong>Gold is not easy to embarrass. Unless, of course, you're Hermione.<br>**

**This segment will be continued next time! Drop me a review!**


	6. The Soldiers of Dumbledore's Army, pt 2

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Part 5, continued: Set in year seven. Neville Longbottom shows his Gryffindor side. David Gold shows his Slytherin side.

**The previous section (Part 5-1) has been edited/expanded! Please go have a looksie! It's better now, I swear.  
><strong>

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><p>"I'm coming with you."<p>

There was no time for this. His headache had not faded; it sapped at his patience and muddled his thoughts. Gold smiled and shook his head. "No, you're not, but thanks," he said, and turned to head to the dungeons.

"Hey!" The pretty Hufflepuff girl chased after him and planted herself in front of him. "I've got just as much reason to help him as you do! I'm nobody's damsel in distress!"

"Never said you were. The D.A. have training for this."

"I can throw a hex pretty good," she argued. "I won't get in your way."

"My methods are... unorthodox." He was disposable. She had a future.

"Stop trying to play hero and listen to me!" The girl looked him dead in the eye. "Carrow just gave Rowle full leave to _rape_ me. D'you get that? _This is my business too and if you expect me not to fight you've got another thing coming._"

Gold opened his mouth and shut it. The remarkable part about it, he thought, was that she was still crying, through all of this, and it didn't diminish her one little bit. "Fine," he said, at last, setting off again at a half-run. "But follow my lead and don't do anything stupidly heroic."

She knuckled tears off her face and scoffed. "No, that's your job? As the man with something to compensate for?"

_I like her_, thought Gold, in spite of himself. "Blokes show off a lot when you're around, I'm guessing."

"You have no idea."

"No, I probably don't. What's your name?"

"Susannah Clearwater."

"David Gold."

"Gold?" She looked at him in surprise. "Like... Samson and Avi Gold?"

_Ah, yes. Hufflepuff_. "They're my brothers," said Gold, grudgingly.

"But-" she blushed faintly. "You're not like them."

Gold gritted his teeth. "Not all of us can lead such charmed lives. Yes, I am the different and damaged one."

"I didn't mean it like that," said Susannah Clearwater.

He let out a breath. Overreacting. That seemed to be happening more and more lately. Headaches and agitation - the clock was ticking. "Sorry. Cruciatus always makes me twitchy. Alright, here's the plan."

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><p>He sent a message to Ginny Weasley with the charmed coins. <em>Longbottom's with the Carrows. I need a distraction. Near the dungeons. Loud. ASAP.<em>

_On it_, came the reply, only moments later.

Every Slytherin in the castle knew which room the Carrows liked to take their victims. Snape's old potions lab lay mostly empty, all his glassware and stores shifted to the Headmaster's office. Gold got them as far as the door. Crouching to press their ears to the keyhole and the gap by the floor - it was Clearwater who had the good sense to use an amplifying charm - they heard the indistinct mutterings of the Carrows, and then a shout of pain. _Neville_.

"Leave him be!" shouted another voice, angry and accented. Gold's stomach dropped. They had Seamus, too.

Alecto replied with a cry of _"Crucio!"_ that would have been audible through the heavy oak door even without the amplifying charm.

Gold got to his feet, brandishing his wand.

"What are you _doing_?" demanded Clearwater, in a sharp whisper.

"I can't just sit here - "

"Yes you bloody well can! They're experienced duellists and they won't hesitate to use Unforgivables - you think you can just storm in?" She tugged him back down, forcefully, by his cuff. Gold let himself be dragged, irritated to discover that she was right.

It seemed to go on and on, and then the two familar, protesting voices fell silent - Neville first, then Seamus.

Gold thought he was going to scream. Then, just as he knew he couldn't wait any longer, the first explosion resounded through the stone halls. _Thank heavens for Weasleys and their wizard wheezes_.

Gold cast another _Avar lev_ and pressed himself against the stone wall, out of way of the door, using his bulk to shield Clearwater from view. Just in case.

The Carrows rushed through the door, shutting it and locking it behind them with a flick of Alecto's wand.

"How do we get through?" asked Clearwater, when they had gone. The boom and crack of the firecrackers echoed over their heads.

Gold shrugged. "What's one more explosion?" he asked, and aimed a _Diffindo_ at the stone walls that surrounded the door.

The hole it blasted was small - small enough that Gold had to wedge himself through. Clearwater, already inside, ran from Neville's unconscious body to Seamus's. "They're both breathing."

They didn't look good. Neville's eye was swollen up tight and Seamus was bleeding from a long, ugly slash down his arm. Neville opened his eyes. His gaze was unfocused. "...Gold?"

"We're rescuing you, oh brave bloody Gryff."

"You blew a hole in the wall?" Neville laughed. "Y'r mental... Now they'll just torture you too..."

"Don't care."

"You all take the fall for each other," said Clearwater, seeming to suddenly realize something. "Even when it makes no bloody sense, you're there - I don't know whether you're stupid or beautiful."

"We're both," said Neville, and closed his eyes again.

Gold cast _Cathari and Papaloi_ to clean and stitch the cut, thinking painfully of Hermione Granger. He missed her.

When he was finished, they charmed the bodies to float weightlessly and ferried them one-by-one through the hole in the wall. When they were both through Gold cast a last glance around the room for any tell-tale evidence, clearing away the rubble with a flick of his wand. Suddenly, Clearwater's pale face appeared in the hole in the wall, her blue eyes wide. "Someone's coming! I can hear-"

"-Go, take them the other way - bring them to your common room! Finch-Fletchly can get them to the Room of Requirement! Run!"

She disappeared again. Gold tried the door, but the lock would not budge. Carrow's locking spell had sealed it in both directions. _Alohamora _did nothing - the only other unlocking spells he knew were in Hebrew, and they wouldn't work on a Latinate locking spell - Gold rushed back to the hole in the wall and tried to get through it, but the fit was tight and there was stone digging painfully into his stomach and _damn, this was too slow -_

The door swung open. "_Avar lev,_" whispered Gold, and pulled himself out of the hole to press up against the wall, trying hard not to breathe.

"_Gelah gviyah,_" murmured a silky voice.

The counter-charm. Gold's whole body went cold. Severus Snape was looking him in the eye. "_Expelliarmus._"

Gold's wand flew from his grip. Snape caught it with long-fingered grace and held it up to the faint, flickering torchlight. "Interesting... Citron wood, short and solid... Not an Ollivander wand. From Israel, I take it?" Snape seemed to take Gold's silence for a yes. "And the core - a very small scroll, I believe, is the custom, tightly bound and bearing Hebrew characters."

He couldn't move. He felt locked in place, as if an electric current were clenching every muscle in his body. _How, how can he know that?_

"Do you think I'm a fool, Gold?" Snape asked, in the barest of whispers. "Your arrogance astounds me. Do you think I failed to notice when my students began using charms in Hebrew instead of Latin? Do you think I did not remember your first year?"

_Oh, G-D. Oh, Merlin. What have we done?_

"David Gold has nothing to say for himself... Well, that is a novelty." Snape flicked his wand lazily at the wall. It bricked itself up seamlessly, closing off Gold's only possible exit. Then he moved closer, with a slow and silent tread. "A rescue attempt? For Gryffindors? And friends of Potter, no less... How noble..." The silkiness of his voice was like a cold hand running down Gold's spine. The torch flames on the wall flickered with every syllable. Snape did not just know Hebraic magic - he knew _old _magic. "I have heard tell of a number of unusual spells following a one Mr. Harry Potter... an enemy of the Ministry, as I am sure you are aware. Strange wards that cannot be broken. New hexes. Perhaps... you know something about this?"

They were figuring out the Hebrew spells. As he'd been so sure they wouldn't. Gold had equipped Potter with a cardboard shield. _Arrogance_. The word echoed along with the pound of his headache.

Gold said nothing. There was nothing to say.

"I suggest you speak, Mr. Gold... or things will get very painful for you."

A flame of defiance flickered in him. Gold said nothing. He raised his gaze to meet Snape's black, lifeless eyes.

"_Crucio!_"

He gritted his teeth against the pain - savage pain that made him sure his head would crack open. His knees buckled. He wanted to die. There had always been part of him that wanted to just get it over with and now that part was screaming inside his head.

Snape lowered his wand, a cruel smile twisting his features.

"You'll need to do better than that, _sir_," Gold panted.

For a moment Snape's gaze seemed to falter, as if he were biting down on a thought. Then he smiled again. "So be it. _Legilimens!_"

There was a sudden, bright light. Gold felt as if he were falling.

_The light turned into the white walls of St. Mungo's, where a frail and scowling boy lay staring at the ceiling -_ _then, retching into a ceramic basin and kicking a nurse in the shin when she tried to help him - at synagogue with his brothers, his kippah covering patchy new hair - blocking a curse from Malfoy in the Slytherin dormitory - kissing Hermione in the abandoned washroom, her hand in his hair - then - _

_Suddenly the onslaught of flashing images seemed to fracture as if he was viewing them through a broken pane of glass. The pain in his head sharpened - the image fractured in two, then four, then eight, multiplying again and again along broken lines, dividing, spreading and warping - everything shattered -  
><em>

Gold opened his eyes. Both he and Snape had been thrown to the cold dungeon floor as if by the force of an explosion.

Snape was on his feet first, towering over Gold. "What. Was that." He crouched low, touching his wand to Gold's fleshy throat. He'd been visibly shaken by it - his greasy hair flew about his face and his eyes burned bright. "Some new spell? More Hebraic magic?"

Gold started to laugh. It had a hint of hysteria in it.

"Calm yourself and answer me!"

"Magic, neyn. My head is full of bad things, Headmaster. Enter at your own risk." He could feel his consciousness fuzzing out at the edges. His own voice sounded hypnotic and insane inside his head. "We think we know so much but nature makes pitiable creatures of us all in the end - she plays her probability games - you know what your numbers say, Headmaster?" Gold wasn't sure whether he had said it in English or Yiddish or simply thought it. "I know mine..."

His head rolled back, and his eyes closed.

Snape swore, loudly and foully, and kicked the prostrate body on the ground in a moment of ill-contained fury. Another one he couldn't save. First Lily's son - Draco - Gold - how many others? And no news of Potter - Gold was a dead end. His efforts to warn them about the spreading word of their secret weapon might have come too late.

Dead end. Merlin.

Snape did not think either of their numbers said anything good.

* * *

><p>When Gold awoke he was in the hospital wing again, his head and his side aching, and Poppy Pomfrey had her wand trained on Alecto Carrow. He shut his eyes and feigned sleep again, ears pricked.<p>

"You may have free reign over the rest of this school but _the day you touch my patients will be the day I die!_"

"Leave him, Alecto," said the silky voice of Severus Snape. "The Dark Lord wants the pureblood lines untouched."

"Even the Jews?"

"Yes, even them. Let him heal before you curse him again - I promise you it is more satisfying to break someone whole."

When Alecto had gone, there was a rustle of robes above Snape's light tread. "Poppy. I need to speak with you."

"I deal with the health of our students, Headmaster. I fail to see how our interests could possibly align." Boiling oil burned cooler than the tone of her voice.

"You realize," said Snape, quite coolly, "that the boy is dying?"

That shut her up. Gold wanted to hex Snape into a thousand tiny pieces. At last, Pomfrey made a tiny little sound of sorrow - a breath of air, nothing more. "Oh..."

"Your diagnostic spells missed it because it is his own tissue gone rogue. He has a brain tumour. And he knows it."

"But-" Pomfrey choked on her words. Gold had never realized she even _liked _him, let alone feel grief over his inevitable death. "He never said anything-"

Snape held his cool. "I believe he is beginning to show symptoms. Recklessness, irritability - more so than usual, I mean - intense headaches - "

"I can't heal cancers," Poppy sniffed. "That's never been done - I don't even have the training to treat them, I'm a _pediatric _healer - Severus, what do I _do_?" She seemed to have forgotten, or slipped back into an old habit, and Snape was no longer her enemy, but her ally.

"You can't save him. Give him something for the headaches and let him end his life as he will."

* * *

><p>Gold expected a lecture when morning arrived. None came. Instead, Pomfrey gave him a pain-numbing potion that definitely wasn't the same one he normally got for bruises and broken bones, let him do what he would with the gifts of chocolate frogs sent in by the snakes and told him he could go to his common room if he promised to come back for a second dose at noon. Gold never thought he would actually want the old, domineering Pomfrey back. He went to the Room of Requirement instead.<p>

Seamus and Neville clapped him on the back, beaming through their swellings and injuries. "You're _mental_," said Neville, as if it was the highest compliment.

"Have you heard anything from Potter?" Asked Gold, with an urgency. "I'm worried the Hebraic spells are getting too well-known. We have to start casting them non-verbally or not at all."

Seamus held up a radio. "_Potterwatch_ says he broke into the Ministry last night! I don't know what he was after but he got out alive!"

"He _broke into the Ministry?_"

Seamus cackled. "Polyjuice! Looked Umbridge in the eye as it was wearing off and said _I must not tell lies_."

Gold had to laugh. With the laugh went the bulk of his worry - Potter wasn't dead yet, he was still fighting, and Gold's oversight hadn't gotten him hurt yet. "Thank Merlin for that," he murmured, as Seamus changed the radio to something lively with a hint of a ragtime beat.

Clearwater was there too, learning hexes from Ginny Weasley. "Alright, Gold? I thought you were a goner."

"Me too. Got out just in time. Are you one of us now?"

"D.A.? I think so. Is there an initiation or something?"

"You have to kiss the squid."

"Bog off."

Suddenly Neville gripped all four of them in a massive hug. "Harry'd be so proud of us right now - don't you reckon?"

"Yeah, mate," said Seamus, "but you're crushing my lungs."

"Sorry." Neville broke away. The grin would not stay off his face. "This calls for something. Butterbeer, anyone? Aberforth just sent some by through the passage - and I've got some gobstones - "

* * *

><p>It was probably just that he was half-drunk off of butterbeer, but when Gold finally broke away from their celebration to use the toilets he locked himself inside and sobbed like he hadn't done since he was a first-year. He didn't want to die.<p>

* * *

><p><strong>The Israeli-made wand is a mixture of the muzuzah tradition and one of the four sacred plants mentioned in Genesis - a 'magnificent tree' growing in the Garden of Eden. <strong>

**Please do R&R! I'm still up for oneshot suggestions. Can't guarantee I'll use 'em all but I'll do my best.**


	7. The Second Seder

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Sorry, this was nobody's request, but it demanded to be written because Dudley.

Part 6: A few weeks after the final battle, Harry goes home for Easter and attends his second Seder.

* * *

><p>Harry hadn't spent Easter in Little Winging since he was ten years old. Most years, it found him still at Hogwarts, where the holiday was looked on as an excuse to eat Mrs. Weasley's incredible chocolate dragon eggs and little else. He'd vaguely supposed he would go to the Burrow, at first, but as time went on it became obvious that the Weasleys needed time alone as a family. To grieve. They'd always said he was welcome, that he was one of them, but somehow it did not seem right.<p>

And part of him, strange as it seemed... almost wanted to go back. To see how much he himself had changed, and whether he could be master of his own past. He had been miserable there, and now if he could go back and be happy, it would be... not closure, but something.

He arrived on their well-groomed doorstep in Muggle dress clothes, with his Gryffindor tie on and his wand in plain view. When Aunt Petunia answered the door, Harry expected her to glare at the wand, but it was the tie her eyes strayed to.

There was a long moment of silence. At last her lips thinned, and she stepped from the doorway. "Well come inside, then. And set your shoes _neatly _by the door. I've just polished the floors and I won't have you tracking in filth from God knows where."

"Yes, Aunt Petunia." It took a deep breath and a lot of moral fortitude to add, "It's good to see you."

Petunia said nothing. Harry followed her into the sitting room, where Uncle Vernon glanced up from the cricket match. "Oh, it's you, boy," he said, with dull surprise.

"I survived the war," said Harry. "Vanquished the Dark Lord, and all that. Thought you'd want to know."

"_I_ think it was a lot of made-up tosh," said Vernon, not very convincingly. "But you didn't get the house, see. Ahah. And now I suppose you've nowhere to go for the holiday so you've come to sponge off us."

Somehow Harry felt he'd gained the winning hand. Uncle Vernon seemed to have deflated, he noticed - he was smaller and older-looking, as if the past year had diminished him. His bluster sounded weaker.

It was only then that Harry realized how bewildering it all must have been for the Dursleys, who had been swept from their homes for a conflict they did not and could not understand. Even if they'd wanted to, it would have been as alien to them as it had once been to Harry. A tiny, vicious part of him told him they deserved it, and he told it to shut up.

Harry went upstairs, putting his trunk away in Dudley's old second bedroom - which seemed to have become a storage room, full of cardboard boxes labelled things like 'Dudley - dormitory' in Petunia's tidy hand.

"Harry?"

Dudley was peaking in through the open door frame.

"Wotcher, Big D?"

"Mum didn't tell me you were coming." He shuffled inside and kicked at a box, looking confused and embarrassed. "I'd have moved this stuff."

Harry had to hide his surprise. "It's alright, I'm not here long. They're never sending you off to uni?"

"Yeah." Another kick at the box. "Got in on a boxing scholarship thing. I don't really fancy going, but Mum wants it so much, see."

"Oh, cheer up, Dud, it's not all textbooks. There's drinking and girls, I'm told."

Dudley seemed to brighten noticeably. "So - everybody - well not normal people, obviously, your lot - they're all saying you - you... did something to You-Know-Who or something that killed him?"

Harry perched on the edge of his old bed. "You've been talking to our lot?" He didn't quite know who this earnest, embarrassed, dim pink thing was, but it wasn't the cousin who'd tortured him through childhood.

Dudley shrugged. "Dad wouldn't have any of it and Mum just got very quiet whenever I asked. They had us staying with the Diggles. I talked to them, a bit. Loony, both of them."

Harry remembered the tiny little man who had bowed to him when he was eleven, and couldn't help smiling.

"Just, what they said was in your world you were this big hero and I mean, you never said. I'd have said."

"You wouldn't have let anybody forget it."

"That was old me."

Harry's surprise reached its apex. "...You really grew up, didn't you, Dud? What happened?"

His face, always ruddy, took on a positively crimson tone. "Dunno, I mean- you just - you do grow up, don't you? And it's rotten. Looking around one day and realizing you always thought you were the hero of the story and actually you're not, it's the freaky kid you used to thrash, and everybody who used to respect you just thinks you're an idiot." Dudley's gaze rose to meet Harry's. He seemed to gain courage. "I may not be clever or anything special really but I don't have my head up my backside like Dad does."

"Wow, Dud."

"So, er. Thanks. For saving England and all that. It's probably the only thanks you'll get while you're here."

Harry shrugged. "Being a hero's not all that great really."

Dudley looked at him like he'd grown an extra head.

"It might be almost nice to be ordered around again. You know? Make a change. I'm sick of people looking at me wherever I go."

Just then - as if to make Harry's point for him - Aunt Petunia's shrill voice resounded up the stairs. "_Harry, if you're not ready in ten minutes we are leaving without you!_"

"Church," said Dudley, apologetically. "Maundy Thursday or something. Mum and Dad've gotten into that in a big way... like it'll wash away the magic or something. They can't make you go."

"I don't mind going," said Harry, thinking of the books stacked deep in his trunk on Latin etymology, the arrival of Christianity in England and the tension between the early church and the Druidic wizards. It would, at least, be an experience.

* * *

><p>It ended up being quite an experience. The Dursleys, overstuffed and primped in their good church outfits, piled into Vernon's new, fancy car with Harry in tow. There were some awkward moments before the service when fellow churchgoers wanted to know who this young man was, and how hadn't they known Petunia and Vernon had another, and wasn't he handsome? But Uncle Vernon silenced them with a stilted remark about St. Brutus's and the service began.<p>

It, itself, was rather more interesting. If he'd wanted any Latin, Harry knew he would have had to go to a Catholic Mass, but there were still little things that spelled out a legacy. Harry found himself flipping through the missal in abject boredom during the readings, but the washing of the feet caught his attention. Magic had no shortage of purification rituals of its own, as he'd learned. It was particularly important to Arabic wizards, who did not do spellwork with dirty hands. Greek magic valued frequent washing for other reasons - it improved the precision of spells and the safety of potions work not to be swimming with contaminants, it seemed. Old Saxon and Druidic magic, on the other hand, thought a good crust of dirt made a wizard a little closer to the earth, a major source of their power. Though only the very eccentric chose to stick to that.

And good old C of E did it because Christ once had - not for the sake of cleanliness but to show humility and servitude in His example.

Harry was beginning to grasp what Gold had once attempted to explain to him as Old Magic - the kernels of underlying and constant truth that echoed through the lore of every magical culture. It wasn't in the specifics of the rituals, but the metaphors that knitted them together, the way gesture could echo a deeper meaning. Some things were universal. Family, courage, redemption, sacrifice, fear, betrayal, love and hate. They each had their own inherent power - magical or otherwise. Stories and languages and rituals and spells - they were all just vessels for that power.

It couldn't wash away the magic, as the Dursleys might have hoped, but if they actually took the time to think on it it might imbue them with a different kind of magic.

* * *

><p>"<em>Snape<em>?"

Harry didn't know how Dudley had weedled Petunia into being willing to listen. It certainly hadn't worked on Uncle Vernon, who was already in bed, and now Dudley and Aunt Petunia (the only people left he still shared blood with, Harry had realized, with a strange pull at his stomach) sat by the fire with Harry, drinking weak decaffeinated tea and talking very quietly of the war. Until the name 'Snape' came up.

"You knew him, didn't you, Aunt Petunia?" asked Harry. "When you were in school?"

"_Knew _him? That filthy, awful scarecrow of a boy - he was _always_ by in the summers, scheming with Lils - " Petunia put a hand to her mouth.

"Who's Snape?" asked Dudley, dimly.

"Teacher of mine. He used to know my mum when they were kids."

Aunt Petunia stared at him with ill-contained curiousity. "He became a _teacher_? At your - freaky school?" Then she sniffed. "And I suppose he favoured you, too."

Harry wanted to say, _Like you've never favoured anybody_, but he held his tongue. It was too early in the visit to start a fight. "No, actually, he hated me. Hated my father, see."

"Well, he was always in love with my sister," Petunia spat.

"Yes," said Harry, "_Always_ always, as it turned out."

Petunia didn't seem to notice the gravitas of what Harry had said. She'd been pushed into her own world. "Him and _everyone_ else - our parents - precious, pretty Lily, so clever and talented - Well _I _loved her first, before she was anything special at all! And _Snape_ - flapped in with his hand-me-down rags and stole her away to some freaky castle to learn _magic_." Petunia sniffed again. This time it was as tearful as it was disdainful. Harry heard the echoed words that she didn't speak. _To Hogwarts, where I couldn't follow._

Dudley put a hand on her arm. Aunt Petunia melted. "Oh, thank you, Duddykins - so thoughtful - Mummy's alright now." She let out a long breath. "So Snape got himself killed by a snake."

"While undercover. He was the best spy of them all. He fooled me totally. And I never even knew he and my Mum were friends."

"He was always too sneaky by half."

Her lack of respect felt like an insult to a part of him, but Harry couldn't wholly say he disagreed. His feelings towards Snape hadn't resolved themselves into anything cohesive, besides admiration. A brave man? Yes. A good man? That was harder to say. Certainly not a _nice_ man. "I... never liked him, but he's a hero now. He has a statue on the castle grounds and a potions college named for him and Rita Skeeter's writing him a biography that's going to turn him into some romantic misunderstood Byronic hero, just you wait and see."

"Mum?" Dudley had crossed to the window. "There's an owl outside."

Aunt Petunia spent a moment in anxious deliberation, chewing her thin lips. "Let in it," she said at last. "But be very quiet. Don't let your father hear."

An elegant horned owl with very long, dark grey plumage swept in through the door, perching on the edge of Harry's chair. It dropped a crimson envelope into Harry's lap. For one anxious moment he thought he had received a Howler, but the envelope was a deeper red, Harry's name and address at the Dursley's lettered on it in golden ink.

Dudley went off to find the bird something to eat - a task he seemed to quite enjoy, for the owl let him stroke it afterwards, staring at him with quiet dignity - and Harry opened the letter. A small invitation card fell out. Harry read it.

"Oh," he said, in pleasant surprise, "I've been invited to the Golds' Seder again."

Then it occurred to him that they'd buried David Gold mere weeks ago. A weight sunk into his stomach.

"What's a Seder?" asked Dudley.

"Passover meal - it's good fun, normally, but I don't fancy this one will be. Their son died in the war. He was one of the ones that fought with us." Harry found a fresh envelope and a bit of paper and started to scrawl out a reply. "I should go... They always loved him best. Is that alright, Aunt Petunia?"

"Fine with me," said Petunia, "one less mouth to feed tomorrow."

* * *

><p>"Did a lot of people die?" asked Dudley, quietly. They were back in Harry's room, now, drinking domestic beer that Dudley had snuck from Uncle Vernon's stock.<p>

"Seventy-eight," said Harry, "on our side, at least. Some of the Death Eaters' mercenaries didn't get counted, and if you include all the monsters they brought in I don't reckon anyone knows. More than two hundred."

"People... our age? That you knew?"

Harry thought for a moment, then went to his trunk and got out his photo album. He'd thought to just show Dudley the dead - it felt fitting, somehow, he hadn't looked at their pictures since the battle and even if it was painful, it felt right to think about them - but Dudley was interested in every picture. He couldn't seem to believe that they moved even though it wasn't a television screen.

"That's the D.A. - our fighting club."

"Cor, like boxing?"

"With wands. There's spells that do a lot of damage. We were more about self-defence than anything else, but we got pretty good, I think." He pointed out Neville, whose grin seemed to illuminate the whole picture ("_He_ killed a dirty great snake? That killed Sna-what's-his-name? I'd have sat on him in third form."), Seamus, whose hair was aflame, Ron, whose hair may as well have been aflame, and Hermione.

"I've seen the ginger-nut before. But she's pretty fit."

Harry hid a grin. "Brainy, too. She's sort of a thing with ginger-nut."

"Bugger. Why've that lot all got green ties?"

Harry's smile tightened slightly. The snakes waved at him from their corner of the photograph, looking not like abused and angry Slytherins, for once, but like kids, happy to be with their friends. Pettyfer's tiny pixy face bore a huge grin. It was strange to look at them all and pick out the dead amongst the living. Gold was off to the side, with an odd look on his face, like he wanted to smile but his pride wouldn't bear it.

"Those are the snakes," said Harry, "they were sort of a club of their own before they joined us. And that's the one who died, whose family sent me the letter." Maybe it was the beer, but something made him honest. "He reminded me of you at first, Dud. Wasn't really fair to either of you."

"You didn't like him, then," Dudley surmised, in a moment of surprising self-awareness.

Harry shrugged. "Not much. Smug git, really, but useful to have around and according to Hermione he could be a good sort if you tricked him into letting himself."

"I wouldn't be hard to trick," said Dudley. "One thing in my favour."

"You're not like you were, Dud. Don't beat yourself up."

"So you're going to this - Seeder thing?"

Harry nodded. "Seems like the right thing."

* * *

><p>Harry had expected to find them all in black. He didn't know why, really. Shiva would be long over. But even so. He did not expect Gold's mother to answer the door wearing a deep peacock blue. She hugged him. "<em>Baruch haba<em>, Harry."

"_Toda raba_, Rifke."

Yes, there were strains of grief on the house - the brothers more subdued, any last pictures of Gold still covered in black cloth - but something seemed to console them all, as if they knew some good news that he didn't. When he finally got Ben aside, he wasn't sure how to broach the topic. "Ben - how's everything? Er - your studies?"

Ben beamed, his dark eyes crinkling. "Better. _So_ much better than before. The war slowed things down so much - even over in the States, things were bad. I'm at Salem Institute now, for my doctorate, and there's always been weird wizard-Muggle tension there, no prizes for guessing why. So with You-Know-Who killing Muggles back home everything was just kind of bad for a while. People in my department thought if they used a Muggle method, You-Know-Who'd track them down. Stupid."

"People are stupid when they're scared."

"Yeah. But then you won it - and suddenly everyone's all excited about Muggle drug therapies. Potions are so blunt - what do we really have that you don't whack on your skin or swallow? - so I'm working on this small-scale locomotor spell that targets drug molecules to specific cells, much easier than nanoparticles. It goes in through ion channels - and - boom, apoptosis!" His excitement quelled momentarily. "It could help a lot of people. Wizard and Muggle. No more chemotherapy potions killing their stomach lining and their hair follicles, it just goes right to the tumour tissue!"

Harry had understood about half of what Ben said, and it was enough to make him happy. "That's _great,_ Ben."

Ben looked bashful. "David's idea originally. But I got it off the ground."

"Ah - Ben?" Harry glanced around, lowering his voice. "Can you tell me- I thought your parents would be... worse, somehow. How is everybody, er, coping?"

"Oh, well, it _was_ pretty bad, but then-" Suddenly Ben clamped a hand to his mouth, turning red. A giggle escaped past the hand. "Oh, bollocks, I'm not supposed to tell you - it's a secret - Oh, I've probably ruined it now. Sorry, Harry, I can't say!"

Harry didn't have a clue what was going on until the sun went down, and they all went into the dining room to start the meal. One minute all was normal - and the next, the silvery, transparent form of a fat boy with elegantly coiffed hair and a bored, smirking expression had appeared at the empty place set to his father's right.

"David! That spot's for Elijah!"

Gold's ghost rolled its eyes. "It's not like I'm going to eat it, Mum." He turned to Harry. "Hello, Potter. Boo, and all that."

* * *

><p><strong>I have way too much fun with my science. Ben attends some kind of a wizarding university at Salem, Massachusetts, which, if you never read 'The Crucible' in high school, is where a lot of Puritans flipped out about witchcraft because one little girl had a vengeful streak. I'm hoping to explore the other great wizarding schools at least in passing, later on. <strong>


	8. Dirty Great Snakes

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This is in response to requests for more of the snakes and more Avi.

Part 7: In the last month of his second year, Gold finds he's better with followers than he is with friends, loses a book, gets it back, and forms the nucleus of the snakes.

* * *

><p>Didon Pettyfer's mother was French, a blue-eyed Beauxbatons beauty queen whose blood status was good enough to excuse her family the crime of being financially middle-class. Her formal education was in potions at <em>L'institut Vulgate <em>in Paris, but she was no notable scholar. Not in that subject, anyway. Her true education was in etiquette, and it was this that forged her a place in the world. She was elegant and eloquent in French, English and German, could sing charmingly and cook fine meals, knew how to dress and when to laugh or make conversation or bat her eyes demurely. Above all she knew how to hold her tongue.

Didon's father was a Slytherin of older money and better blood than her mother, which acquitted him of the crime of being twenty years her senior. He travelled often, moving high-demand and dangerous potions materials around the globe, or at least that was what it said on his business card. They didn't talk about what he really did. All the children learned that lesson from their mother and never thought to question it.

She was the youngest of them. Her elder brothers called her _petite-sous-pieds_, and petite and underfoot she was. Her height never reached past four-foot-nine. Given a low gust, she would blow away. She was eager for attention and approval, full of questions that nobody could answer. Her mother would shush her harshly before the first word. "_Chuchotte, ma belle_! You are much prettier to look at that you are to hear!"

It was said with love, and Didon understood that looking pretty was a witch's art and aspiration. It came to her easily; she had a pleasant face and a light tread. Like her mother she would never have to work to maintain her slim figure. She watched her mother closely, and learned what she could get with a smile and a flicker of her lashes. In her first year at Hogwarts she was careful to be sorted into Slytherin ("_Merlin's beard," _the sorting hat murmered into her ear, "_are you trying to think of your tricksiest moments, just to sway me towards Slytherin? What a very Slytherin thing to do, you lucky little devil._"). When she initially excelled at transfiguration and charms, working hard like her brothers did in an effort to outdo them, she was chastized instead of praised. "Your posture!" her mother would cluck. "Too much time in the library! Have you no friends to pass your time with?"

It wasn't fair. Her brothers got to read all they liked, and be powerful, and all she had was the power of a pretty smile. Didon wanted more. She wanted to _be _more. But if she was not pretty and demure and proper, she was nothing at all.

* * *

><p>"Excuse me, monsieur."<p>

The second-year boy sitting in her place in the common room - _her special place, close to the fire, with the lovely, polished oak armrests carved in the shape of elegant foliage scrolls, the one that reminded her of home - _had a small thin face and a twitchy manner. He stared up at her for a moment. Didon knew by rumour that he was a Muggleborn, and he looked far too nervous to take any foolish risks. But instead of quietly getting up and leaving with his tail between his legs, as Didon had expected, he glanced over at the boy sitting next to him.

"You're excused," said the other boy, without looking up from his book.

Others in her house would have sneered at him. Didon was too well-bred to sneer externally, but in the privacy of her head she sneered to the moon and back. The second of the boys was well-groomed but fat and consequentially homely, wearing Muggle clothes, lounging bonelessly in his seat, reading and eating an apple. Like he owned the place. He wasn't from any pureblood family _she_ had amongst her acquaintance. Muggle clothes might have been acceptable in other parts of the castle, but they weren't decent here in the Slytherin common room. His whole existence seemed somehow indecent. She imagined his chair breaking under him.

She smiled prettily at the fat boy. "I was speaking to your friend." As if on cue, the Muggleborn squirmed and started to get up.

"I'm not so much Tasker's friend as his legal team," said the fat boy. "Sit down, Tasker."

Didon huffed and turned to the smaller boy. "I'm terribly sorry, but that is my usual place - I'm sure you didn't mean to intrude, but if you could-"

"Do you know what the phrase 'common room' actually means?" the fat boy interrupted, looking up from his book to meet her gaze directly.

Didon was taken aback. "...Well, it's a room for the common usage of the house."

He bit into the apple with a loud crunch. "Correct, and yet somehow still completely empty of meaning" he said, around the apple. "The word 'common'."

Something about her tone seemed to imply she was an idiot. Didon was no idiot. "Public. Universal."

"Antonym?"

"Private or unique."

Tasker was watching them like it was the Muggle game with the rackets and the back-and-forth green ball.

"Thus the contents of the common room are not to be made private, but to serve in the common wellbeing."

She scowled. Her friends were nearby, tittering, and she wasn't sure if it were directed at her or him. "That's all very well and good, but tradition dictates I sit there."

The boy leaned forward. Throughout the whole conversation his expression had not changed. Neither had the directness of his eye contact. His eyes were very dark brown, almost black. They reflected firelight. "And that's your trump card? 'Because it was, so it shall continue to be'?"

"Traditions hold the world together."

"A pot may hold clay for a young tree, but eventually the tree's roots will shatter it. Whatever you're afraid of, the chair will not make it better."

He was making her unsure of herself. She hated it. It was like standing in her brothers' shadows yet again, letting them call her _petite-sous-pieds_ in front of all her friends.

"You're taking liberties above your station, Gold," warned Carolingia Rowle, taking a place at Didon's side. Didon knew from her smirk that this 'Gold' was an outsider, somehow. Didon knew she'd won. Not even the purest purebloods defied Carolingia Rowle.

"Well, I'll have to cut that out, or I might have an original thought. What's my station, Carolingia?"

"You're nothing but an upstart nobody but I didn't think even _you_ were fool enough to defend a Mudblood."

"Obviously you don't know me very well."

Carolingia's eyes glittered. "Haven't you heard the news? _Enemies of the Heir beware. _Muggleborn filth and Mudblood-lovers alike."

Tasker made a small involuntary sound. Gold simply locked eyes with Carolingia and bit into the apple again, with a defiant _crunch_.

"Disgusting." Carolingia turned on her heel and flounced away - which seemed to delight the fat boy immeasurably. A smirk spread across his face, and he returned to his book. "Don't let her bait you, Tasker, she knows no more about it than any of us."

"That's easy for you to say," objected Tasker. Didon was surprised to find he had a voice, and not a little, wheedly one either. "The Heir wouldn't go after you."

"It'll have to, if it wants to get to you," answered Gold. They both seemed to have quite forgotten she was there - or were ignoring her on purpose.

Didon didn't like being ignored. She cleared her throat. "I'm not afraid of change. I just like that seat."

"And you like simpering to Rowle, too, I'm sure."

"I don't _simper_. Carolingia's my friend. And _you_ are very rude."

"Better that than a liar. Come on, you've a brain, why don't you use it? Do you _like_ agreeing with everything she says and trying to catch the eye of any rich pureblood that'll have you, even though you could out-think him in a heartbeat?"

She glared at him, stuck for words. He was the most impetuous person she had ever met.

He grinned, and got to his feet. "Here, then. I can see I'm not going to change your mind. I hope your traditions keep you safe from all the bad new ideas and complicated thoughts. Come on, Tasker, let's go jelly-legs Hector Claude."

She knew he was mocking her, but she didn't know how to respond. She glared at them as they left. It was only when he was through the portrait hole and gone that she noticed he'd left his book. _Treatise of Human Nature_, _by David Hume_ sat on the surface of the sought-after chair like a giant accusatory eye.

Didon sat down and flipped it open.

* * *

><p>"Staying out of trouble?"<p>

Avi, only a fifth-year, was already the best potion-maker in Hufflepuff house. Which wouldn't normally mean much, but Avi really was skilled. David watched with a needle of envy as his brother's slim, sure hands measured out bloodroot and cut it into precise, perfect lengths. He said nothing in reply. He hated lying to Avi.

"Alright, you don't have to answer," said Avi, easily. "How about friends? Lots of those?"

David thought about it. Tasker hung around a lot, but they had never stopped calling each other by their surnames. David doubted very much Tasker would have bothered if he didn't know that David could protect him from the upper-year Slyths. "Slytherins don't have friends, Avi, we have followers and allies."

Avi smiled down at the rat tails he was carefully skinning. Occupied with the work in his hands, he didn't seem to notice that David wasn't kidding. "Alright, those then. Lots?"

"Enough."

"I knew you'd be fine."

Part of him glowed in the warmth of his brother's faith in him. Part of him wanted to slap the skinning knife out of his hands and force him to look David in the eye, Maybe then perfect, lovely, thrice-charmed Avriel would be able to see that he _wasn't_ fine, that nothing was fine, Slytherin was a den of cutthroat liars and David was profoundly alone.

His brother's dark, laughing eyes remained fixed on the rat tails.

"I want you to stay out of the corridors when you're alone," said Avi, after a moment. "They're saying it's Muggleborns, but Salazar Slytherin would have fancied we were just as bad. If you got petrified, _khas v'kholileh_, there might be complications - "

"Thank you, mother."

"Well I'm sorry, David, but it's my job to look after you."

"Because you allllways know better than me how to do that."

"David…"

"Isn't it already Samson's job?"

"Samson's busy with his N.E.W.T.S."

Of course he was. Samson had his N.E.W.T.S. and Avi had his O.W.L.s and they were both off to have bright, beautiful futures in magical healing. Time enough to care so much about his wellbeing that they wrapped their whole careers around his fate but not enough to look him in the fucking eye.

David scowled at the floor. He knew he was being stupid. It wasn't Avi's fault. "I won't go roaming the halls on my own." _Much._ _You see what happens when you play mother, Avi? I have to lie to you. You're working yourself to the bone to heal the world and especially me and I'm lying through my teeth.  
><em>

"Thanks, David," said Avi, distractedly, "You're doing really great."

David left without saying goodbye. If his brothers loved him too much to respect him, he'd go to those who respected him but did not love him.

* * *

><p>Thomas Tasker felt like he had a target painted on his back. According to the admissions ledger that sat in the library, he was one of only ten in Slytherin house whose status was anything less than quarter-blood and one of only seven true Muggleborns. The numbers did not fill him with confidence.<p>

When he could, he followed Gold around like a second shadow. It probably made no sense, hiding from the Heir behind a second-year, but Gold was close to top of their year and he seemed to have total faith in his own abilities. Thomas thought he was mental, but couldn't help believing it himself, after a while. Gold could do things with magic that nobody else knew how to do. He could do things with just _words _and _looks_ that nobody else knew how to do.

Thomas knew a leader when he saw one.

They were in the library, hidden near the back amongst all the old books of pureblood history and geneology. Searching for the word 'heir', for references to the Chamber of Secrets, anything.

"There's something here about a hidden room full of privies that only opens when you _really_ need to go," said Thomas.

"Probably not our boy. The Heir writes on the wall with blood. He's dramatic. I doubt he'd stoop to privies. Beneath his dignity, see?" They kept looking.

"If it's really attacking Muggleborns, we should talk to the other ones in Slytherin," said Tasker, after a moment. _Safety in numbers._

Gold looked up at him sharply. "There's other Muggleborns in Slytherin?"

"Seven of us."

Gold was already shoving books into his bag. "Let's go."

"What, now?"

"Yes, now. They're vulnerable."

Tasker was surprised by the urgency in Gold's tone. Maybe Gold was more afraid of the Chamber of Secrets than he'd let on. But he couldn't hardly be afraid for himself. Pure blood meant something, even in an outsider. He got up and started putting his things away.

* * *

><p>Getting to each Muggleborn turned out to be difficult. One of them was a sixth-year who thought the whole thing was a load of rot and certainly wasn't going to listen to a pair of second-years, thank-you-very much. A second thought that safety in numbers would just make them all more vulnerable. A third just looked at them like they were mad.<p>

Then the news came that Hermione Granger - top in their year - had been petrified too. And suddenly they were all listening, desperate for anyone who even _seemed _to have a plan.

That evening they gathered by the fire and Gold laid out a schedule that would allow them to get each Muggleborn to their classes without having to rely on the Slytherin prefects - who, Gold seemed furious to learn, liked to threaten the Muggleborns with petrification if they didn't earn enough house points. Tasker knew those were empty threats, but they still scared him. Everything seemed scary, right now.

When the rest of them had gone to bed and the common room was all but empty, Tasker and Gold sat up by the fire, combing their library books for the Chamber of Secrets.

Hearing footsteps, Tasker looked up, and saw Didon Pettyfer approaching them. For a moment he wanted to groan, but the look on her face was not the same polite cattiness from the day before. She was in a hurry and she looked scared.

"What do _you_ want?" asked Gold, who hadn't looked up long enough to notice how pale she was.

"It's a snake."

"What?"

"I heard Malfoy talking. He said something about a dirty great snake."

Gold closed his book and stared at her. "Talk sense, Pettyfer."

"I _am!_" She glanced around anxiously, leaned in, lowered her voice. "The thing that's attacking Muggleborns. It's got something to do with a snake." Thomas noticed that her hands were shaking. "I think... it's a basilisk."

"A _basilisk_ in Hogwarts?"

"Well, think about it! Slytherin's symbol was a snake - and nobody's looked it directly in the eye, Creevey had a camera - Fitch-Fletchly saw it through a ghost and they say Granger had a mirror-"

Thomas didn't know what any of that had to do with basilisks, or even what a basilisk was. But Gold seemed to, and he was quiet for a long, long moment, staring into the fire, his face set in a frown. "Should I trust you?" he asked, at last. To Thomas's surprise it seemed like a serious question.

"I'm not lying," said Pettyfer. And she handed him a book. Thomas recognized it as the book Gold had been reading the other night, by the fire. "What's happening - I don't like it. I didn't join Slytherin house to see a lot of innocent kids die."

"You're not concerned someone'll see you helping the Muggleborns and Mudblood-lovers?" asked Gold. "Enemies of the Heir, beware. I think we qualify."

Thomas wanted to tell him to shut up - having another pureblood on their side would improve their chances - but Pettyfer didn't seem at all deterred. If anything, she stood straighter and looked fiercer, despite her shaking hands. "You're the only ones trying to actually do anything. That'll have to be good enough."

"Thought you preferred tradition? Heaven knows Slytherin's been trying to drive out the Muggleborns for decades. Your friend Carolingia wouldn't approve."

"I'm telling you I was wrong, you don't have to rub it in my face. Have I passed your little test? Used my head? Showed that I'm not scared to change things? Carolingia Rowle is one thing but a _basilisk_ is - it's going too far. This isn't what I thought being pureblooded meant."

Gold gave her a steady look. "Sit down, Pettyfer."

Pettyfer sat. Her chair was empty, but she deliberately chose another.

Gold stared back into the fire. "A dirty great snake, azoy?" Orange light played off his eyes. "Well, I'm a dirty great snake too, and if it touches a one of you it'll learn I've got fangs."

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><p><strong>Glad to be getting to some requests! Next up, since I've finally figured that out for a few:<strong>

**1) The Continued Haunting of Draco Malfoy, in which Gold discovers that there are people on earth who find Malfoy attractive, and**

**2) The Unravelling Thread, in which a member of the D.A. learns the truth and Gideon Rowle learns a lie.**

**Please review!**


	9. The Continued Haunting of Draco Malfoy

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This is in response to requests for Astoria Greengrass's druidic roots and a meeting between Gold and Hermione's progeny. I'm sorry, but counter to request, I've kept it in line with the book epilogue because I _like _the book epilogue.

Part 8: Set some time after the final battle. Gold discovers that there are people on earth who find Malfoy attractive. And some of them aren't even horrible people.

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><p>Granger had long since stopped being able to visit him at Hogwarts. She'd moved beyond it; it wasn't part of her life any more. Gold knew that. He didn't wait for her like a new puppy any more. <em>That<em> rather pitiful phase had, he decided, been the byproduct of a transient depression brought on by the sudden and jarring realization that a) after so long spent with the knowledge that his time on earth was finite, suddenly he literally had all the time in the world, and b) he was _dead_.

He'd moved on, or at least learned to keep himself busy. He had a whole house full of students to concern himself with. He'd been the self-appointed Golem of Slytherin house since he was a chubby, pouty eleven-year-old and that title didn't just wash away with a silly thing like death.

But something kept pulling him back here. Sometimes bodily. Being incorporeal had its blessings - very few spells seemed to have the slightest effect on him now, and he could pass through walls at will - but now that he was no longer subject to physical forces, _other_ forces seemed to move him as they would.

_Drip. Drip. Drip._

"It's not like I was in _love _with her," he complained, waking up yet again in the tiled cool of the abandoned toilets with no idea how he'd gotten there. "She shouldn't mean this much, I shouldn't keep getting tugged here."

"Maybe it's me you're really here to see? I'm better company than the Baron."

"Oh, do shut up, Myrtle."

Somewhere behind him - Gold wasn't looking at her - he heard a splash and a wail. "You're so _cruel_! We're the only ghosts in this whole wretched castle who died as students - I thought I was finally getting- I don't know, _something_!" She gave a deep, waterlogged sniff. "You don't have to love me, just _talk_ to me!"

"We live and die lonely, Myrtle," said Gold, who'd barely listened to a word she said, "Get used to it."

* * *

><p>It had been a long time since he'd been back to Malfoy Manor. It looked.. different. Much of the well-kept grounds, run to seed during the war, had been allowed to grow somewhat wild. What had once been a massive, immaculate lawn was now a meadow, overrun with wildflowers. The peacocks were gone. The hedgerows assumed more natural forms than the perfect, boxy regularity that Gold had become familiar with during his many hauntings. The great oak trees that shaded the house were alive with birds and dripping with grapevine and mistletoe.<p>

"I love what you've done with the place," said Gold, appearing stretched out on Malfoy's desk with one knee crooked, draw-me-like-one-of-your-French-girls style. Probably an unfortunate pose, considering, but he cared very little.

Malfoy shrieked. Then abruptly regained his composure and glared. "Not funny, Gold. Where _have_ you been?"

He twisted round to sit cross-legged on the desktop. "Have I been remiss in my haunting duty?"

"It's been four months."

"Has it?" Gold frowned. "Time sort of gets away from me now. It never used to."

"You could have at least gotten in touch."

"Draco..." Gold tilted his head, staring. "Have you _missed_ me?"

"No," said Malfoy, "I need you as a character witness."

It was possibly the only answer that could have shocked Gold more than a straight 'yes'. Malfoy, seeing the obvious bewilderment on his face, sighed and leaned in, speaking to him in a whisper. "The thing is, I've done what I can to make reputable connections and move forward, and so on, but sometimes one doesn't want any doubt in the matter and next to the sodding golden trio you're the only moral authority I know who's not, you know, the non-communicative form of dead."

"I'm flattered."

"Take me seriously for once in your bloody life."

"It's not my life any more, Malfoy, and I _am_ taking you seriously," said Gold, holding up his hands, "I'm flattered. I mean it."

"Good. Er. Well." Malfoy had gone rather pink. "I'll go and - "

"-Draco, love, who are you talking to?"

Gold had been expecting Draco's mother, but the woman who walked in was far younger and, Gold thought, far more pleasant-looking. She was thin and dark-haired, dressed in brown robes that made her look more sensible than sensual, held in place with a large silver pin in the shape of a dragonfly. There was a cleverness in her eyes.

Gold's eyebrows shot up. "Oh." Then he saw the glittering ring on her left hand, and the eyebrows in question made a break for his hairline. "Someone's _marrying _you?"

Malfoy went crimson. _Shut it,_ he mouthed.

The woman laughed. "Yes, gods call me crazy, I am." Her tone was lightly teasing, affectionate even. She actually seemed to like him.

Curiouser and curiouser.

Malfoy, to his credit, recovered his poise quite quickly. "Astoria - you remember I told you the place was haunted?"

"I'm sorry for not believing you, love, but he did sound rather far-fetched." She turned to Gold. "So you're an old school friend of his?"

"David Gold, as I was known in life. Ghosts need titles, apparently, so I'm the Golem of Slytherin, as often as not. _Were _we friends, Draco?"

"...More like school enemies," admitted Malfoy. Then he tilted his head so that Astoria wouldn't see, and mouthed _Please make me look like I wasn't such a berk_.

Gold smiled like a cat with a can-opener. He was going to blackmail Malfoy something _fierce_ later on. "But, you know, we saw past our differences after my death," he lied.

"So why do you still haunt him?"

"It's not really a proper haunting. We catch up on Slyth gossip and swap opinions on Muggle philosophers." Merlin, that part wasn't even a lie.

"Yes, he likes that, doesn't he," said Astoria, absently.

Gold had to fight the urge to snigger. The size of Malfoy's collection of Muggle philosophical literature was second only to the Song of Songs on the 'list of things Malfoy and Gold would never speak of again'. "I think it speaks volumes about his improved open-mindedness, really," he said, trying to sound pleasant. _Oh, Malfoy, you owe me._

"I'll leave you two to chat for a moment," said Draco, who looked like he knew exactly what was going through Gold's head and was fighting the misguided urge to strangle him. "I think I might open a bottle of something. Astoria, darling, would you prefer the '69 cab to the ruffino? "

"You know I prefer beer, love," she answered, in a sing-song voice. Gold liked her more and more.

"Pour me a glass of the ruffino," he called out at Malfoy's retreating back, entirely to be difficult. "Just leave it out for me as a ceremonial gesture, like I'm Elijah."

"You tease him something terrible," said Astoria.

Malfoy had pleased with him to paint him in a good light, but Gold decided authenticity would make for a prettier picture. "Oh, you've seen nothing. This is us playing nice."

"He's a sensitive soul, you know. The war was hard on him. He was so afraid, all the time." She perched on a table, using one of the chairs as a footrest and revealing large, rather splendid boots. They looked like they could have kicked through walls. Gold was fairly sure they were dragonhide.

"I know," answered Gold, allowing himself to sober, "or at least I suspected, at the time. I held him in contempt for it. But he's got a will to change, and that means something."

"Do you think he's changed enough?" For the first time, there was worry beneath her fondness. "Don't mistake me - I love him. He tries so hard. He worships me. He makes me _laugh_. I just... don't want to see him relapse."

Gold thought about it. "I warn you, I'm not one for sugar-coating. Except for literal sugar coating, which is delicious."

"Go ahead."

"Never stop loving him, Astoria, or he will implode. He's always been so desperate for real affection and if you ever take it away I fear he'll be worse than he was."

Astoria let out a long, slow breath. "...No pressure."

"A lot of pressure. If you can't handle it, now's the time to get out."

She narrowed her eyes at him. "How old were you when you died?"

"Seventeen."

"So this is an angsty adolescent's take on long-term commitment."

Gold shrugged. "I was always bollocks at love. But very good at reading people."

"...I think I can be what he needs. I hope I can."

"If it helps, you're already more than he deserves," said Gold, trying to resurrect a hint of levity. "Who are you, anyway? I know you drink beer instead of massively expensive wine and have boots that could crush bone, which is enough to sway my judgement, but still."

"Greengrass. Astoria Greengrass."

Gold frowned. "Your sister was in my year in Slytherin."

"That sister terrorized me all through my childhood," said Astoria, looking him dead in the eye.

"Really? Oh, thank Merlin, I was going to say she was a complete _khaleria_ but I didn't want to offend you."

Astoria let out the faintest breath of a laugh. "I think maybe I shouldn't ask what that means. But. Daphne was mother's favourite. The only one who preferred me was my grandmother. She and I were both... well. There is a reason I chose not to go to Hogwarts."

Gold stared at her. Somehow the idea of _not_ going to Hogwarts was unfeasible to him. "Where did you go?"

"Avebury Henge."

Something dawned on him. "...You're a Druid?"

"Like my father's mother, yes. I was always more drawn to moon and stars than stone walls. Hogwarts stifled my magic."

"Is that why there's mistletoe growing outside?"

She beamed. "Yes. Draco let me leave out the berries, even though sometimes it can kill an oak - do you know what the birds do? They eat the berries, and the seeds get stuck on their bills, and then when they alight in a tree they choose a new branch, not too new, because it's just the size for their feet, and wipe the seed off with their bills. And so it grows in the tree. When it grows thick enough I can perform a moon-hailing."

Gold gave her a confused look. Astoria looked quite happy to explain. "It's a purification ritual. Sort of a spell, sort of not. But I think it might help Draco... you know... forget. About the parts of the war he's not proud of."

"Ah, now _that_ I understand.'

"Few do." There was a hint of a challenge in her voice. "Latin wizards don't _have_ purification rituals any more. Not since they drained all the faith out of magic. Druids are old, old as the hills. These lands used to be ours, until the Roman Empire came in. A different kind of Pagan magic took over then. There's so few of us left now." And as she spoke, she reached out towards a small potted vine that Gold was _sure_ hadn't been there the last time he was here. It bent towards her like a snake, twining around her finger.

Gold laughed. He'd never been able to resist a whiff of a challenge. "Don't get competitive with me about old and oppressed magical cultures, miss Greengrass. Zeyda used to say a good Jew would keep an argument going his whole life rather than lose it. But if there's one thing Harry Potter successfully rammed down my throat it's that everyone has their old magic. It comes with the territory of believing there are levels of meaning in the world beyond what you can touch."

"I think it blurs into faith," said Astoria. "Latin wizards see a dichotomy, but I can't. You yourself are proof of the undying nature of the soul."

"You're too kind."

At that point Malfoy appeared, juggling a glass of amber beer, a bottle of wine and two glasses.

"Merlin, Malfoy, you didn't think I was serious about the cup for Elijah, did you?"

Malfoy gave him a blank look.

"Draco," said Astoria, rising to her feet to peck him on the cheek, "Should we take these outside and show him my standing stones?"

* * *

><p>When he left the Malfoys he didn't go back to the castle. Instead, he found the Burrow, and from there, the little cottage down the road where Granger and Weasley had settled. Draco and Astoria's happiness seemed to have cut a hole in him and it needed to be stitched up somehow.<p>

Hermione had always been good at that part.

He didn't approach the house itself. That felt invasive, somehow. Instead he stood by the gate in the dimming twilight, watching the blooms of the dogwood tree in the front garden move with the evening wind and wishing he could feel that wind. Hoping, somehow, that she would catch sight of him in the window and come out to speak with him.

Eventually, he went back home, and awoke again in the abandoned toilets.

* * *

><p>"Scorpius! <em>Scorpius! <em>Give it back, it's not funny!"

"I bet you write all your secrets in here, all the margins are full of ink-"

Rose stomped her foot. Scorpius knew a lot of things she liked hearing, about the moon, and goddesses who watched over flocks, and men in white robes who carried golden scythes. Spooky stuff, but interesting, too, and not stuff she could find in _any _book in the Hogwarts library, and she'd looked at all of the ones that weren't in the restricted section, thank-you-very-much. But he acted like he could just take whatever he wanted, especially when they went to the Slytherin common room. He was much better-behaved when he came to see her in Gryffindor because James and Teddy and all them were there to make sure he didn't get beyond himself.

Al Potter, who had been sitting by the fire reading his book, peeked his head around the wing of a big armchair. "Careful, Scor," he said, with badly-contained laugh. "A pureblood picking on somebody mixed-blood? The Golem'll get you for sure."

"Yeah, right, Potter."

"Or maybe I will. Give her back her book."

Scorpius rolled his eyes and handed Rose back her copy of _Hogwarts: a History_.

"What's the Golem?" asked Rose, perfectly content now that she had her book back. He'd only been teasing, but she _did_ have secrets written in it.

"Don't ask, or we'll be here for hours," said Scorpius, rolling his eyes again. He was the king of eye-rolling. Rose had never met anyone so good at it. "Father says he's a friend, but all they do is argue anyway."

"Not strictly true," said a voice from behind her. She whirled around. Behind her, a silvery, transparent ghost lounged in one of the armchairs - a fat teenager with very fancy hair. "Sometimes we also play chess," said the ghost.

"While arguing."

"Hello, Scorpius."

"Hello Gold."

The ghost turned its eyes on her, tilting its head. A flicker of something passed over its face. "Who's this?

Rose swallowed, and went for the phrase she had always rehearsed for meeting new people who frightened her. He wasn't as scary-looking as the word 'golem' made him sound, but ghosts were still a little scary either way. "Rose Weasley, sir. It's a very great pleasure to meet you, sir." She started to stick out her hand, then faltered and pressed it back to her side.

"I thought so." The ghost was silent for a moment. "I knew your mother when we were students here. She's likely forgotten who I am, but I was very fond of her."

"Were you in love with her, sir?" asked Rose, who was too romantic a soul to show much subtlety.

Scorpius looked at her like she'd just said a very foul word. But the ghost just shook his head.

"I don't think so. _In love _is a big, important thing and I don't like to use it lightly." His tone was... not quite wistful, but thoughtful. "She was the best friend I ever had. Which may be even more important."

Rose had a thought. "What did you say your name was?"

"I'm the Golem of Slytherin."

"Not that name. That's just a title. The name you were born with."

The ghost looked at her oddly. "David Gold."

Rose laughed, delighted. "Oh, she remembers you."

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><p><strong>Next up: The Unravelling Thread, in which a member of the D.A. learns the truth and Gideon Rowle learns a lie. Please throw me a review!<strong>


	10. The Unravelling Thread

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This chapter is in response to a request from krazyfanfiction1, who wanted Gold's bravery to get its due. Kinda sorta.

Part 9: Set towards the end of year seven. In which a member of the D.A. learns the truth and Gideon Rowle learns a lie. **This chapter is probably still T-rated, but there is discussion of both sex and statistics. Consider yourselves warned.****  
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><p>One of the few reasons for gratitude in amongst all the awfulness that the Carrows' rule had brought on, besides the sudden semblance of inter-house-unity, was that Gold didn't have to worry about disappointing anyone. Almost anything could be blamed on the Carrows, one way or another. The subtle war being waged through the halls of the castle hid all manner of sins.<p>

"Given that the potion flares lambda times per day on average, but that flares occur totally at random, we want to determine the likelihood of seeing theta flares in twelve hours. How would you model that?"

No hand shot up; no clever voice launched into an explanation. Granger's departure had left a hole in the classroom.

Vector seemed to feel the empty gap too, and she glanced around the class with a slight frown. He felt her eyes settle on him. "Mr. Gold, how about you?"

_You'd want to compare theta to a reference distribution-_

Gold's quill fell to the floor. He opened his mouth, stared from Vector to the problem set on the board to his right hand. It was curled in a loose fist. It would not open.

Professor Vector wasn't simply looking at him now, but staring. Gold felt like he was going to throw up. He ducked under his desk and tried to reach for the fallen quill. He knew it was easy but he didn't know the answer. His hand was a useless lump of meat. _- Reference distibution modelling events randomly interspered Oh, G-D, it really won't move - no, focus - randomly interspersed in space or time - a Poisson distribution - _

He emerged from underneath his desk with the quill clenched in his other hand, crimson-faced, trying not to hyperventilate.

"Mr. Gold?"

"One half lambda to the theta, times e to the negative one half lambda, all over theta factorial," Gold blurted. Barely in time. His hand twitched and relaxed. One by one he willed each finger to move.

Vector smiled at him, but it was an odd smile, tight and uncomfortable.

After class, she beckoned him over. "I've just finished marking last week's essay, and- well, it's not your best work." The look on her face was a pointed question. _Is everything alright?_

Gold winced internally. Externally, he remained calm-faced. "I know. I'm sorry, Professor, but..." He lowered his voice. "With all the _modifications to Hogwarts management_ I confess it no longer seems right for me to focus primarily on schoolwork."

Lying through his teeth again, like a good little Slytherin. He _was_ fighting the Carrows tooth and nail, just like the Gryffindors-turned-guerrillas and the snakes and everyone else in the D.A. - but he thought he still could have kept up, if not for the headaches. Madam Pomfrey's potions stopped the pain, when he wasn't too stubborn to take them, but they didn't take away the awful pulsing fuzziness that lodged itself between his ears.

Vector nodded, her lips thinning into a grim line. "I can understand that." She'd stayed out of the Carrows' notice, for the most part. She had to. Giving the Death Eaters trouble would only bring down trouble on her Ravenclaws. But sometimes Gold could see the fire in her eyes when they walked by. "To tell you the truth, I think... should things... improve, this year will likely be expunged from all your academic records. _If having psychotic criminals for professors doesn't count as extenuating circumstances_ _I don't know what does_," she added, sotto voice.

"I certainly hope so."

"I assume you'll be applying to an Arithmancy program once that's all straightened out, though?"

Gold blinked. Merlin, he hadn't thought about any of this. But of course she would assume. There was no question in Vector's voice, not really.

"Your brother Benjamin goes to Salem Institute of Magical Technology, isn't that right? I'll write you a superb letter. Or the Dunsinane School - a little smaller, but no less respected. Albus Dumbledore did his work with Flamel at Dunsinane."

She was paying him a huge compliment, and he knew it. Salem and Dunsinane. Two of the most important magical postsecondary academies in the world. And mentioning Dumbledore's name was bordering on a sacred act. It made him feel ill. "Yeah. Er. I mean I thought I'd try for both," he lied. "I've another brother at Dunsinane, so either way..."

"Impressive family." She laughed. "Where's the third brother?"

"Samson's a healer, doing his residency off Moses-knows-where. He's too footloose for research."

"Well, I'm sure you'll have your pick of both, and I'll finally have an alumnus doing world-class Arithmancy. You've real talent. It would be criminal to waste it."

Words formed on the tip of Gold's tongue, and then died there. Vector seemed not to notice, so he turned from the desk to go.

"Oh, and Gold?"

"Vas?"

"I _am_ sorry about Granger." Vector's tone softened. "I would have liked nothing better than to see the two of you together."

Gold let out a breath, in spite of himself, and smiled a lopsided smile. "Never took you for such a romantic, Professor."

"Romantic? Minerva and I had a bet on." She arched an eyebrow at him. "You lost me twenty galleons."

He had to snort. "Granger and I came to the mutual agreement that it was for the best. As for the twenty galleons, don't blame that on me - It's your own fault for betting on the dark horse with the longest odds. You don't have to be an Arithmancer to know that's just stupid. A pair of eyes would suffice."

Vector brushed the comment away like a distracting fly. "There were practically lightning bolts flying across the room when you two debated a point. I followed my instinct."

"Very few successful relationships have been built upon the merits of intellectual debate, Professor."

"Mine is."

"A, You're a Ravenclaw, and B, with all due respect, I've seen your wife. It's built on more than that."

"Touché." Vector's smile was wicked. "Nevertheless, you cannot tell me Miss Granger cared nothing for you."

"I think the tension had to boil over before we could be friends. But eventually we were."

"Were?" Vector gave him a sharp look. "Gold, if this is your way of telling me something has happened to Granger I will be very, very angry."

He wouldn't have blamed her. The hopes that rode on the Golden Trio were never spoken of aloud, but they were even stronger, for all that. Saying 'were' had been unintentional - but she'd gone off to save the world and he did not think he would see her return. "No, no, nothing like that. Just that she hasn't been here all year."

"It's strange, isn't it? Not having her around to try to impress us both at every turn, and succeed? Makes the class feel... empty." Vector surveyed him with deep-set grey eyes, calculating all the parameters of her intuition. "You'd best not lose touch with her. A friend who's intellectually matched to you is a once-in-a-lifetime gift."

Suddenly Gold was painfully aware that he had to do something.

* * *

><p>"Do you know where Gold is?"<p>

"No idea," said Didon, with a shrug, aware of the fact that the question had been primarily addressed at her. Which was annoying. Normally, yes, she was his biggest supporter, but he'd snapped at her for no bloody reason the last time they spoke, and Gold rarely apologized for anything. _Git. He's not the boss of me. _

"Should we just start?" asked Neville, looking apologetic beneath the bruising of a black eye.

Didon glanced around the room one last time, as if she could have missed him. "May as well. He's been weird lately. He's probably just up in his dormitory sulking."

"I can go and try to fetch him if you give me the password," offered Susannah Clearwater.

"Could you?" Neville looked relieved. "I need him to demonstrate the nonverbals, I still can't get those."

"The password's _tradition_," offered Didon.

* * *

><p><em>Dear Hermione,<em>

_By the time you read this I will be dead. _Please don't hate me for not telling you -__

_Granger -  
><em>

_Dear Granger,_

_By the time you read this I will be dead. My decision not to tell you in person was regrettable, but necessary. I want you to know that -  
><em>

The floor was littered with papers. Susannah picked her way through them, trying not to look, but curiosity guided her eyes without her permission.

Gold, in the middle of it all, sat cross-legged on his bed with his hands in his hair, too focused on the parchment in front of him to notice Susannah's approach. She could already tell she'd stumbled in on a moment she was not meant to see - the wisest thing now was to back away and make like she'd never come here in the first place.

The inevitable _scrunch_ of a balled-up piece of parchment under her foot made Gold's head jerk upward. Susannah winced.

"Get out," he growled. He looked very different without his usual perfectly-groomed, bored composure. The intensity of his gaze was almost burning. She'd never been afraid of him before now.

"Sorry," said Susannah, steeling herself. "Only there's a D.A. meeting on -"

"I said _get out_."

"-And they asked me to check on you-"

"I don't _want_ their _concern_!" She saw him reach for the water-glass on his nightstand - ducked behind the bed hangings to shield herself, on instinct - but she did not see the glass shatter against the wall behind where she had stood, though she did hear it shatter.

He'd attacked her, or tried to. If she had any sense, she would get out now. But suddenly everything was silent, and the caring Hufflepuff in her would not listen to sense. There had to be a reason for it. Susannah ducked back around the bed curtains.

The glass had shattered all over the bed. Gold's right hand was bleeding, studded with fragments of broken glass. His teeth were gritted, his round face scrunched inwards as if he was using every ounce of strength not to cry out, or break into tears.

Susannah had the sense to know without being told that it wasn't his hand. "...David?" she asked, staring at him with wide eyes.

Gold shattered like the glass. His shoulders hunched inward. His head dropped like a stone. "I. I-I don't-"

He looked more frightened than she had ever seen him. Susannah cleared away the glass with her wand and sat down next to him.

"I don't know if that was me." Gold swallowed, drew a sharp breath. "That's, that's a lie, of course I know, I - look at me. I'm coming apart. I'm so sorry. It's all going so fast."

"You'd better explain," said Susannah, calmly, as gently as she dared for fear of getting bitten. Gold responded to kindness the way other people responded to savagery.

"Have I pretended well enough? Can you guess?"

She shook her head.

"I'm dying."

The finality of it seemed to have calmed him. It had the opposite effect on her. Susannah felt like her stomach had dropped out of the bottom of her feet. "What- how? How can you be-"

Gold tapped his forehead, leaving a bloody smear. "Carcinoma," he mumbled, thickly, "I used to have it all through my stomach and now it's in my head."

"But aren't there magical treatments, I mean-"

"Against the Emperor of Maladies?" He gave a bitter little laugh. "Spoken like a true Muggleborn, Clearwater. Hah. No. What can be done when the body itself turns against you? It is the ultimate in self-destruction." He stared with a kind of a detached interest at his bloody hand. "Who threw that glass at you? That's an impossible question. It was me and it wasn't. I'm losing ground."

Susannah didn't know what to say. What she said was, "Give it here, you need the glass out."

Gold held out his hand. Susannah used a plucking spell to take each piece out, making him wince every time.

"How... long do you have?"

"Months. Maybe a year. I don't know."

"Why didn't you _say_ anything?" She paused from picking out the glass pieces to look him in the face, or try to. The magnitude of it left too many questions, too many implications. Did the others know? No, she decided, they couldn't possibly. The snakes leaned on Gold like he was a pillar. The Gryffindors bantered and sniped. There was no trace of grief in their scrappy camaraderie. "The D.A. need to know, David."

"No. I'll curse you if you tell them."

He sounded so petulant that for a moment she wasn't sure he was serious, despite everything. "But this matters, I mean-"

"_No. _I won't have their pity," Gold spat, refusing to meet her gaze. "I won't be reduced to a victim. Alright?"

Susannah removed her hands from his. She felt a bit like she'd been bitten. The silence crushed her. "David-" she murmured after a moment, "Letting people close to you is not the same thing as inviting their pity."

He said nothing, staring fixedly at his hand.

"Maybe even the opposite," said Susannah. "They don't realize what you're dealing with. If they did-"

"No."

"What are you afraid of?" It was a plea, not a challenge.

"Losing them. One way or another." He exhaled, and all the harshness and anger seemed to leave his voice. "I made my peace with it. A year or two ago I was ready. Could have gone at any moment without regret. Only now... The D.A. ..." His eyes finally met hers. "I've had caretakers and I've had followers. I'm not really used to having friends."

It occurred to her then that she had never heard anyone call him by his first name.

"So either I lose their respect, the way I've already lost yours, or I die knowing I've tasted something perfect and never really gotten to experience it. I don't want... I don't want anything to lose. Or anyone else to mourn me. I don't want to be scared to die."

"But you already are."

The look he gave her was helpless, imploring. _Of course I am_, it said, _but let me pretend._

Susannah didn't press the point. Instead, she took his hand again, and cleared the last of the glass. "There. What healing spells should I use?"

"_Cathari_ and _papaloi_."

She followed his instructions, cleaning and sealing the many small cuts.

"You won't tell anyone then."

"Wouldn't be my right," said Susannah. "I just... think you should."

"I can't."

Susannah looked him in the eye. This time he held her gaze. After a moment of silence, she nodded. "I'll make up an excuse for the others."

"Thank you."

"Gold... I still respect you."

He said nothing, so she got to her feet.

On the other side of the dormitory door she nearly ran right into Draco Malfoy. He didn't have his wand out, but he sneered at her. "What are _you_ doing here? Get out, you filthy Mudblood, go back where you belong."

Susannah had no patience for Malfoy or his insults. She felt like she'd been punched in the gut by Gold's news; she needed to take something for herself. She gave him her best demure smile, batting her eyelashes. "Well, you know. It's not often I can get David on his own. A girl has needs..."

Malfoy's expression could not have been more horrified. She swatted him on the chest. "Oh, don't worry, we didn't use your bed or anything. Tah, Malfoy."

She left him stunned and stock-still, and walked away with a brief feeling of triumph.

* * *

><p>Gold barely had time to clear away all the half-written letters when he heard Malfoy's approach. Malfoy caught him in the act of vanishing the last of them - but, strangely, he didn't seem to notice the suspiciousness of it. He was too busy staring at Gold like he'd grown a second head.<p>

"What is it, Malfoy?" asked Gold, too weary to bother with aggression. He still felt raw. His hand hurt.

"_Clearwater_?"

"What about her?"

"You're shagging her!"

"I'm what now?"

Malfoy pointed at the dormitory door with a mixture of anger and helplessness. "She just _told_ me!"

Gold thought fast. The look on Malfoy's face was too good to ignore, even in his current mood. If Clearwater herself had told him so... She was up to something. But until he knew what, he saw no harm in playing along.

He shrugged. "So what if I am?"

"She's-" Malfoy looked too apoplectic with rage to summon up words, so Gold filled in.

"What? Fit?"

"_Yes!_"

Another shrug. They seemed to drive Malfoy even crazier than verbal replies. Gold flicked his wand, summoning a chocolate frog from his desk drawer. Chocolate, in his experience, healed all wounds.

"_How?" _Malfoy sputtered. "_Granger_ first, now Clearwater?"

He tore open the packaging with his teeth. "Myrtle's been telling stories."

"Yes she bloody well has!" If Malfoy had been trying to disguise the trace of jealousy mixed in with his horror and bewilderment, he was doing a terrible job. He looked over at Gold, saw the chocolate frog, and made a face of renewed disbelief. "See? See? How can girls possibly like you this much? You're always _eating_!"

Gold arched an eyebrow at him and waited for the other shoe to drop.

"That's disgusting."

"You won't get far with that attitude."

Malfoy collapsed onto his bed. "Oh, now are you going to tell me there's some ancient Muggle philosophy text about _this_, too? The - the meta-ethics of pleasing women?"

"Oh, well if you wanted _that_ you should have just asked," said Gold, dusting chocolate crumbs off his fingers. "It's not meta-ethics, but it's certainly creative." He shifted to his bookcase, and, after a moment of picking through the spines, pulled out a book and tossed it to Malfoy.

"You've given me the Torah," said Malfoy.

"Mm-hm. Look up the Song of Songs."

"You're full of it, Gold."

"No, seriously. I don't need my English copy, you can keep it. Read it. It's wild."

Malfoy scowled at the book, and flipped to the Song of Songs. A few lines in, his eyes started to get very wide. "...Ointment?"

Gold cackled. Between the chocolate and this conversation, he felt much better. "Good, isn't it?"

* * *

><p>The next time he saw Clearwater, at a D.A. meeting, there was a distinct awkwardness between them. Finally he took her aside to a corner, lowering his voice to a whisper. "Clearwater, did you <em>tell Malfoy we shagged?<em>"

She blinked at him. "That's not a problem, is it?"

"You're fourteen."

"I'm fifteen, and precocious."

"But we _didn't_."

She rolled her eyes. "Of course not. But Malfoy told Rowle, like I knew he would, and it drove him _mad_. He hates you."

"...You're a little evil," said Gold.

She shrugged. "Slytherins don't have the monopoly on it."

"It's a bit presumptuous. All that talk of respecting me, and then you use me in your revenge plot?"

"I didn't honestly think you'd mind. I thought it'd add to your reputation."

"That's just the problem." Gold found himself laughing. It felt good, actually. It had been too long. "Malfoy thinks I'm some kind of sex god."

"You should have seen the look on his face," said Clearwater, breaking into a laugh herself. "I'm sorry, I just honestly couldn't resist."

"It's fine. Bit surprised you're not worried about _your_ reputation, though."

"I said I was precocious. Half the reason Rowle wanted me to begin with is he's one of the few I'd say no to. I probably _would_ have shagged you if you'd asked."

Gold found himself making a face that probably wasn't too different from Malfoy's.

"Well, I'm not going to refuse a dying man, am I?!"

"Shut up shut up!" Laughter was making him short for breath. "You're terrible!"

"You could pretend I was Granger."

"And who'd you pretend I was?"

"Your brother Avi."

"I'll pass."

"thought you'd say that. Here lies Gold, virgin forever, too proud to accept a friendly offer of no-strings-attached sex."

"You're _actually_ the devil. You belong in Slytherin."

She elbowed him in the ribs. "You're suddenly very red in the face, oh _dear_, I'm not responsible for that, am I?"

"Leave me alone to my eternal shame. Though if you want to revenge yourself on Rowle, you know, there's a lot farther you could go..."

"You sound like a man with ideas."

"I might be."

They rejoined the others still giggling. Beyond all the weird questions and looks and the fact that Gideon Rowle now had it in for him more than ever before, Gold found he was grateful to her. She certainly didn't seem to think he was made of glass just because he was dying. Quite the opposite.

* * *

><p><strong>Tee hee. Sorry for mood whiplash, but I needed some levity STAT. This chapter was tonally inspired by the Only1noah Cover of "The Once And Future Carpenter" by The Avett Brothers. You can find it on youtube and it is perfect and sad. Some of the themes that song introduces lyrically have been wound through this story since day one.<br>**

**Incidentally, Gold was suffering from transient ataxia at the beginning, the Poisson formula is real, and the two fictitious post-secondary magic schools I created are obvious parallels: Harvard & MIT with Salem and Oxford with Dunsinane. Salem probably also has a high school level something-or-other, I think Rowling's said so.  
><strong>

**The Song of Songs, also called the Song of Solomon, is also real, and super-kinky. Early Christianity had to claim it was a giant metaphor for Christ's marriage to the Church so as not to get embarrassed and uncomfortable. **

**That letter Gold was attempting to write will re-appear later on.**

**Up next: Some kind of exploration of the brothers Gold. I'm still taking suggestions, so please review and make your requests!**


	11. Letters, pt 1

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This is in response to a desire for more of the other brothers. **Sorry for the long, long wait - exam season bit me in the butt.**

Part 10: Set in February of year seven. David Gold thinks he's the different and damaged one, but the situation is rather more complicated than that. Collaborative science is complicated, and owls are not really a very good way to get information around.

* * *

><p>The ink was honestly the most annoying part. It had to be made from scratch, the black pigments mixed with floo powder, finely crushed albatross tooth, and seawater taken from the ocean of passage. Made properly (by Avi), it had a brilliant blue hue and a silky texture. Gold's always came out navy blue and gritty, but it worked well enough.<p>

He lit a candle - not one of his ordinary taper candles, but a dark blue beeswax candle, thicker than his thick wrists and older than he was, mottled with streams of hardened wax from use after use - and began to write.

_Ben,_

__I saw your latest paper in __Jn. Med. Mag.__ Getting a first author paper in a good journal this early in your career is impressive. Keep doing us proud and don't go developing an American accent.  
><em>_

_The situation here is unfortunate. Hogwarts is a joke, at best, and a prison at worst. That Snape murdered Professor Dumbledore in cold blood is now an open secret; the teachers obviously know, and stay only to protect us from Snape's pair of bloodhounds, the Carrows, who barely even pretend not to be Death Eaters._

_I used to like Snape. Obviously my sense of betrayal is not important compared to that of the people he's killed, but it has left me conflicted. Something doesn't add up. He knows things, about Dumbledore's Army, and my condition, and more than he should about our magic, _mia maxima culpa_. I was careless - I taught people the spells to protect them and they spread too fast. Yet he's said nothing and done nothing with the information, insofar as I can tell. Maybe he's told You-Know-Who Potter has some new spells up his sleeves, but if so, why not at least tell the Carrows as well? Whatever he's playing at, it will not end well.  
><em>

_Every day is a battle. Nobody's died yet, but some of the gryffs are not in good shape. Several Muggleborns and near-Muggleborns have had to be evacuated say what the Carrows will do to you is nothing to what the Ministry will do to you if they find out your blood status isn't pure. One of my snakes snuck into the library and burned the entire blood registry book over a month ago. I thought Pince would murder him, but she set a small fire in the references section to cover it up for him. The other teachers try to give us whatever help they can, but everyone has to appear to toe the line. It's guerrilla warfare._

_In the midst of all this, I am happier than I have ever been. I seem, as one of my recent friends put it, to be constructed for calamity._

_Symptoms: transient loss of coordination, transient loss of movement (restricted to right hand), extreme headaches, nausea, light sensitivity, irritability, occasional outbursts of recklessness or rage._

_-David_

He waited until his watch read precisely midnight, then touched the parchment to the candle flame and held it aloft. The blue ink burned brightly, illuminating each word just before it faded into ashes.

* * *

><p>An ocean away, Benjamin Gold waited in a small apartment, illuminated only by the light of the setting sun and a large, brilliant blue beeswax candle. The hands of his pocket watch ticked restlessly closer to 7.00PM.<p>

The second hand met its mark. Instants later, the candle flame spat out a sheaf of paper bearing his brother's familiar hand in dark blue ink. Ben snatched at it.

"S'that?" asked the wizard who shared the apartment with him - a bantam-sized American herbologist who insisted on calling him Benjy.

"Letter from my brother."

"Bad news?"

"I don't know if I'd call it news at all," said Ben, whose eyes had fallen immediately to the bottom of the letter.

"Oh! That reminds me. This came for you_." _His flatmate shuffled to the desk and dropped an envelope down. "By owl, if you can believe that. Who the hell uses owls any more?"

"We still do in England."

"Oh my god, really? Like is instant ink not a thing there?"

"Mitch, no offence meant, but ..."

"Sorry. I'm not even here."

Ben read David's letter twice through. The first read-through, he saw only the calamity at Hogwarts, the growing list of symptoms. It wasn't until the second time that he caught the words 'recent friends' and the hint of pride behind them.

Normally, David was so obnoxiously intelligent, so sharp and so proud of his skills, that it became easy to forget the child he'd been. But suddenly Ben was acutely reminded of the pride his once-frail little specter of a brother had shown at doing things like other children did. _Look, I can make friends. I'm a real boy. Not some broken thing that can never work right again._ The thought made his chest ache, so he put aside the letter from David and picked up the other.

It was parchment, with bright emerald ink, marked unmistakeably with the Hogwarts seal.

Ben cast a nervous glance at Mitch, worried his flatmate had recognized the seal. Mitch, bless his heart, was unassumingly shoving milky cereal into his face, his nose inches from his textbook.

Nobody much wanted to be associated with Hogwarts, these days. He'd heard horror stories of researchers getting burned for collabs with Hogwarts alumni, especially the ones who wore the green tie. Ben already got sideways looks, even though he'd graduated before You-Know-Who's return. The wizards of America wanted nothing to do with Britain's war. Mitch never had, but then, Mitch was wonderfully oblivious to anything that didn't photosynthesize.

Ben broke the seal and unfolded the parchment, wondering faintly whether it had really been delivered cross-Atlantic by owl - whether Hogwarts had some spell for that - or whether they had simply booked an owl once the letter arrived in America out of that strange English traditionalism that filled so many wizards' heads. The neat, precise hand of the letter was neither McGonagall's, nor that of his head of house.

_Dear Mr. Gold,_

_Forgive me for contacting you in this unorthodox manner, but I felt it was my moral obligation. I recently read your paper in the Journal of Medical Magic, 'Applications of wyrm venoms in targeting of aberrant cell metabolism' and while most of it went straight over my head (the field moves so fast these days, especially in America, and my background training isn't as fresh as it used to be), but it seemed as though if anyone was in a position to help me find a solution, it would be you. I'm at my wits' end. _

_I must assume you already know about your brother David. What he hid from the entire staff at Hogwarts (!) he cannot have hidden from his own family as well?_

_I've been treating him with a mood-altering headache draught derived from St. John's Wort. When Headmaster Snape informed me of it, he seemed to think nothing could be done, but I cannot accept that without trying. Surely a strong chemotherapeutic regimen could at least slow the process? He is young, and relatively healthy if only he'd stop getting himself attacked, and could afford the associated malnutrition. Why has such a course of treatment never been undertaken before?_

_My practical expertise is at your command._

_Yours,  
>Poppy Pomfrey.<em>

He would hate himself for it later, but it gave him a glimmer of hope.

Ben picked up a pen, found a sheet of fresh paper - he had not used a quill in years - and scribbled a reply. It was not in his nature to be formal, and even if it had been, he could not have stood it under these circumstances.

_Poppy,_

_I'm sorry you and the rest of the staff were never told. The reason for it was also one of the reasons why we never attempted chemo: David forbade it. This isn't his first struggle with cancer and I think he would honestly rather die than relive what he went through the first time._

_I don't like the secrecy either, of course. There comes a point when 'choosing a normal life' is not so different from 'walling yourself off from anyone who could help you' and with David, G-D knows where that line lies. As for the decision not to undergo treatment - I think he may have been right. We exhausted so many possibilities the first time around that every line of treatment we looked into had only a miniscule chance of success, and at the cost of his quality of life. Even so, I still would have liked to try.  
><em>

_But if you got him to willingly take a tricyclic antidepressant, even for pain (actually, how did you do that?) then David's viewpoint might be shifting as it becomes more real to him.  
><em>

_The problem with treatment is the blood-brain barrier. Every cytotoxic substance, mundane or magical, has simply been exported by p-glycoprotein in culture - meaning it would never get to the tumour in the first place, just get shunted to the hepatic system, and possibly do all kinds of damage there. My work with wyrm venom is promising, but it seems to have very strong off-target effects that need to be reduced before anything can be done. The venom binds p-glycoprotein and inhibits it, which would be enough to get a potion into the brain, but it seems to have the same effect on all the ABC-family transporters because of their similar structure. _

_Ben_

That evening he paid a visit to SIMT's fairly defunct owlery and found out the process for trans-Atlantic owl post. It was just as he was returning that he received a hail from the thick blue Oceancrosser candle, still burning brightly on his kitchen table.

He'd never seen the handwriting before. That in and of itself was strange. Oceancrosser candles were expensive and rare. The Golds had two, old heirlooms from when their great-grandparents had first arrived in Israel after the Grindelwaldian War. The only other Oceancrossers he'd ever encountered belonged to Filius Flitwick and Albus Dumbledore, and he knew their hands - Flitwick, his owl head of house, with his tiny rounded letters, Dumbledore with his slanting, ornate cursive. This hand was sharp and spiky.

_Mr. Gold,_

_It has recently reached my attention (_How recently, thought Ben, within the last twenty minutes?_) that you intend to attempt a course of treatment upon a student of Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, for a limbic system carcinoma._

_I wish to offer up my expertise. I am a researcher in potions, located in Great Britain. The venom of wyrms and fell snakes has been an area of particular interest for me in past years, and, if the severe flaws in your recent publication on the subject of wyrm venom and its interaction with the cell membrane is any grounds for judgement, I think you shall need my assistance. Are you not aware that storage of wyrm venom under anything but pure white light leads to the alteration of its binding kinetics? Or of its interaction with kelpie milk, which I note you used as a blocking agent in your Western blots? _

_I shall expect your reply by Oceancrosser at the stroke of 10.00pm, your time. For the moment, I wish to remain anonymous, but you may address me as Prince._

* * *

><p>"Avi!"<p>

An ocean away, Avi Gold shrieked and fell from his bed in a tangle of blankets. A moment letter he had righted himself, his brown curls a wild tangle over dark, tired eyes, and was staring into the fire. "Ben, you _arse _- it's two in the morning- "

"It's important," said Ben, whose knees already ached from kneeling on the hard cement floor. He hated flooing. The SIMT graduate residences, more bound up in industrial and technical magic than the so-called 'elemental schools' of the old world, did not come with a fire in each room, so he was stuck using the community fireplace in the horrible unfinished basement. It was enough to make him miss England, with its stone and oak and roaring hearths, quite acutely.

"What if I'd had a girl in here?"

Ben rolled his eyes. "Grow up. It's about David."

_That_ got Avi's attention. He shuffled closer to the fire, his blanket wrapped around his shoulders like a cloak. The look on his face was pained. "News?"

Ben softened. Avi - only a few years David's senior - had always been closest, not just to David but to the calamity of his illness. Often ignored, undervalued, forced to make sacrifices so that David could have more - as if giving up trips and treats and attention would ever make fair the massive unfairness of nature. Sometimes Ben thought the rhetoric of sacrifice had sunk into Avi's bones. There was not a thing he wouldn't have done for David. Or for anyone else.

"Pomfrey wants to try and treat him. She got in touch with me tonight - and so did an anonymous collaborator. Calling himself 'Prince'."

"Is he a Strange Animal?" Avi's penchant for jokes had taken on a slightly hysterical air.

Ben gave him a warning look. "He says he's a potions researcher located in Britain with a specialization in wyrm venom. Does that sound like anyone at Dunsinane?"

Avi shook his head. "No Princes in my department. The only person I know of who's working on wyrm venom is Bill Cawdor in the Thane Lab, and he's on leave with a new baby."

Ben read him all three letters, ending with David's.

"Happier than he's ever been?" asked Avi, weakly. "Was he unhappy?"

"Are you stupid?" Ben would have reached through the fireplace and slapped his brother if he could. "You were the one at Hogwarts with him."

"He said he..." Avi trailed off. "He was popular in his house, he did well in class..."

Classic Avi, for whom happiness could come with simple success. Ben shook his head. "Our brother wasn't 'popular in Slytherin house', Avriel. He was part of a counter-movement against all the horrible shit that happened there. Didn't you ever talk to him about it?"

"Yes... maybe? I don't know - I was so busy with schoolwork, and then the volunteering at St. Mungo's, and he said he was fine, so-"

"_Never ever believe David when he says he is fine._"

Avi looked like he'd been struck. "Well what _could_ I have done, Benjamin? I've tried and failed, I can't fix him!"

"It wasn't your_ job_ to fix him, just -" Ben scrunched his eyes closed, cutting himself off. He understood, he did, and it would be a hypocrisy to chew Avi out over this. Avi didn't need chewing out. David was his one great failure. Fixing the Problem that was David had been most of their lives' work, all three of them. "Look, are you with me on this?"

He'd known Avi wouldn't hesitate. Avi never did. "I'll do what I can. Whatever potions you need, I'll brew them. Should I get in touch with Samson?"

Ben thought about it. "Better not. He's in love, let him be in love."

"Actually," said Avi, with a guilty wince, "He's not in love. He's in Nunavut."

* * *

><p>Samson Gold was freezing his arse off.<p>

The Kluane Lake Magical Hospital could not have been more remote, or, in his opinion, more primitive. But it suited him. It took a lot of work just to live here, where the winter winds gusted to -50 Celsius and the permafrost never melted. Which was good. Work took his mind off things. He'd chosen Northern Canada for his Healer residency because it was the remotest place he could think of. Someplace he could feel he was doing good work, helping people who really needed it. Somewhere far away from the darkness that was creeping in on his family.

The whole hospital was on an angle. When the permafrost melted with the residual heat of the foundations, not long after it was first built, the southernmost half, closest to the heating system, had sunk into the earth. Now the interior was only held to rights with magic, so that things didn't slide off tables, but the spell was tricksy, starting to get old. Sometimes gravity wobbled. Samson had become a very good sailor. Doing his rounds to their three wards and thirty-seven beds, he noticed several of them starting to slide down to the south end, and had to push them back into place.

In the first bed, a wizened old walnut of a man looked at him through ancient eyes.

"Morning, Siluk," said Sam, crouching. "How are we feeling today?"

"Tuurgacs in my spine," said the old man, with a humoured look, "Bad spirits. This morning they're having a party."

Sam opened his mouth, to patiently explain that it wasn't demons, it was Lundyfarian hobbling arthritis, the same reason for which many old wizards had a terrible stoop. But he'd learned early on that with the Inuvialuit, you could never tell what was a spiritual explanation for a scientific phenomenon and what was them just pulling your leg, and they knew it, and wanted it to be that way.

Samson offereded him a thin vial of blue potion. The old man peered at it. "Not the way the Shamans used to treat it. Caribou bone, ground into a fine powder, and willowbark and sweetgrass, and moon mushroom, and whale-fat, and a hair from a Qalupilak, boiled over a flame in the freezing air. Then wrap the vial in sealskin. _Seal_, not caribou. Important. That was how they used to do it."

"This has been prepared and tested under controlled, sterile conditions to be sure it works every time. It's a lot of the components you mentioned - calcium phosphate, which is in bone, and an emulsifying agent that's derived from fats-"

But Siluk had already snatched it from his hand. "I don't need convincing. Either it works or it doesn't."

"But you were saying, the Shamanic way of brewing-"

"Didn't work half the time. They would have made it like this if they could but the caribou had parasites that made it bad and who can say when you're going to catch a Qalupilak? No, the Shamans are mostly gone anyway."

Samson found that made him strangely sad.

"I like to look back because someone has to honour the past." Siluk laughed a rusted old laugh and knocked back the potion, wincing. "Maybe you scientists in your white coats, you're the closest thing the modern world has to Shamans. To know what magic does, that's nothing. To know _why_ - that's what the Shamans knew."

"Healer Gold?"

One of the nurses had just ducked her head into the room. Samson beamed at her. Flirting with the female nurses was off-limits, but in a small town people seemed to understand - especially, thought Samson, rather proudly, when you were a young and dazzlingly handsome Englishman from a wealthy family of purebloods with a good career already in hand. Here, he would never pale in comparison. Without three brilliant brothers no-one would ever mind that he was merely clever. "Yes, Atiq?"

"I'm sorry, I didn't realize you were with a patient-"

"It's fine, just bringing Mr. Okpik his potion dose. What is it?"

"The chasse-galerie's arrived."

Samson rushed upstairs, threw on his hat and parka and inner gloves, stuffed his feet into boots. Then he rushed outside - the cold stabbing into him like a driven nail - just in time to see it descend. Hull-first, a great canoe, easily thirty feet in length, its birchbark surface painted in red and yellow and black. Kluane was too remote for owl, and too cold. Only a lunatic would change the winds on a broom.

The figures within were balls of winter clothing, everything but their wind-chapped faces uncovered, and they spoke to each other in rapid Quebec French. Sam's French was alright, by the standards of England, and he caught about 20% of it.

"Voyons, pas cette package, celui-là, crisse de tabarnac de- okay delivery for the 'ospital, six boxes, potions from Montreal. Sign."

Samson signed the form, running over every item in those six boxes, all the new treatment possibilities. He'd been waiting for delivery a long time. The chasse-galerie driver stared at his signature. "Gold?"

"That's me."

"This was sent for you too." A letter was pressed into his hand. He recognized Avi's writing on the envelope.

Avi, the only brother he'd told about this highly unorthodox residency - because Ben was a blabbermouth and David was out of the question. Avi would not have contacted him about just anything.

Damn it all. He'd hoped it wouldn't follow him here. He'd hoped they had a little more time than that. It wasn't David's fault, G-D knew _that. _And it wasn't that he didn't love his little brother, either, whatever people thought. David made it hard to love him and impossible not to. But years and years of inevitability, of grim news and probabilities and prognoses and _David David David_... it was agonizing. Suffocating. Ben had been farthest away from it, no wonder he was the most normal... and Avi, underneath that enthusiastic charm, seemed to Samson constantly on the verge of exploding under pressure. Sam wasn't willing to live that way.

_Some Hufflepuff you are_, said his conscious.

_No, _he reminded it, shoving the letter into his coat pocket. _I'm not disloyal, I'm not abandoning my family. I just... can't help the way Ben and Avi can and they don't understand that. _

But here at Kluane? He _saw _the difference he made, every day. The town needed resources and education and he could help.

Even so, he kept the letter, putting it aside to read as soon as the chasse-galerie departed.

* * *

><p><strong>So I have no idea why I decided to take a dalliance into the Canadian North, but I enjoyed doing it, and will be continuing this segment soon - though something else may come in between.<br>**

**This chapter contains many bits of truth from my father's experiences doing archeological work on Canada's Inuit, and a little French-Canadian culture thrown in for flavour. The Chasse-galerie is probably my favourite Christmas story. **The line 'the cold stabbing into him like a driven nail' is a reference to a distant relative of mine, Robert Service, and his poem 'The Cremation of Sam McGee':**  
><strong>

**"...talk of your cold! Through parka's fold it stabbed like a driven nail. ..."**

**On the note of St. John's Wort - it actually does contain compounds structurally similar to tricyclic SSRIs such as amitriptyline, which are used in treatment of headaches induced by brain cancers, since these usually don't respond to normal headache/migraine treatments. P-glycoprotein is actually the first point of testing for cancer drugs because even non-brain cancers tend to develop multidrug resistance by overexpressing it.  
><strong>

**Still taking suggestions, please R&R! I'm hoping to get back to my usual posting schedule now that exams are up.**


	12. That's Wizard's Chess

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This isn't a response to anything in particular, but I felt the need to give credit where it was due. Gold curses a lot in this chapter, just as a warning.

Part 11: Set towards the end of their fifth year. Everybody underestimates Ron Weasley. Especially Ron Weasley. A chess game turns a battle of egos on its head.

* * *

><p>They'd agreed to meet on the grounds, under the willow tree by the lake. Neutral territory. No matter how often Granger badgered him into coming in, he was even less comfortable in the Gryffindor common room than he was in his own.<p>

"Nice pieces."

Weasley's ears went crimson. He shot Gold an ugly glare. "Look, just because they're not very pretty, doesn't mean they don't play well, alright?"

Gold wouldn't normally care how Ronald Weasley spoke to him, but he'd _meant _it. He was trying to build bridges, or perhaps mend them. Not a skill that had ever come naturally to him. If it had, maybe Gold would have realized earlier that drawing any kind of comparison between Ron's battered old heirloom and his own elegant Italian marble pieces would only feed the low embers of Weasley's embarrassment. He didn't know whether he wanted to slap himself for being obtuse or slap Weasley for ever thinking Gold would care about money. "I'm not making fun, Weasley - I don't think chess pieces _should_ be pretty. A soldier with pretty armor likely hasn't seen a battle."

"Your set's awfully pretty," said Weasley, with something between accusation and envy.

"It's garish. It was an excessive Bar Mitzvah present from a tasteless uncle."

"I'd swap you, if my pieces weren't loyal to our family." Ron looked down at his scratched and weathered chessboard and scowled. "Never thought I'd hear anybody complain about a present being 'excessive'. Might have known y_ou_ didn't get dressed in hand-me-downs."

Gold let out a bark of a laugh. He couldn't blame Weasley for jumping to that conclusion, especially not when his trousers alone had cost £100 in Muggle London. "As if they'd fit. Have you seen my brothers?"

"Bill's old robes don't fit _me_." Weasley held out his sleeve to demonstrate. It was a good two inches too short for him. "I've just got to live with it."

Gold took his point, enough that he didn't bother to quibble over the difference between 'the fit doesn't look good' and 'it is literally physically impossible for me to pull these over my arse'. "Not saying I'm not lucky. I don't deserve any of what I get, and consequentially I don't enjoy it."

"Sorry if that doesn't get you a lot of sympathy, Gold."

Gold turned back to the board. "When I want sympathy, Weasley, I'll ask for it. What, are you after mine?"

"Your move to open," said Weasley, with a marked scowl.

"Pawn to B3."

Weasley raised an eyebrow at him. Gold knew why; it was an unconventional opening, and some might say an imperfect one. "Pawn to E5."

"Bishop to B2."

"Knight to C6."

It was a good move - fully protecting Weasley's pawn while developing his pieces. Gold had underestimated the gormless-looking ginger sitting across from him. He frowned at the board for a moment. "Pawn to C3."

"Knight to F6."

"Knight to F3!" Gold felt triumphant; he'd not only threatened one of Ron's pawns but also gained complete control of the A1-H8 diagonal element. His smug grin was all too at home on his face, making his eyes flash defiantly.

Weasley scowled at the board. "Alright, clever-dick," he said, after a moment, as if grudgingly admitting the quality of the move. "Pawn to E4." The only thing he could reasonably have done unless he wanted to sacrifice a pawn. And then, as if it was still rankling at him, "I'm not expecting sympathy either. I don't care about the clothes or any of that. It's just stuff."

Gold was quiet for a moment. He pretended to consider the board. "Knight to D4... You realize your family's wealth or lack thereof doesn't change how we think of you in the slightest?"

Ron stared at the chessboard, frowning deeply. He looked more glum than angry now. "Thought you weren't in the business of sympathy."

"Neyn. I'm in the business of justice."

"That sounds like something very easy for rich boys to say. Bishop to C5."

Shit. It was a very, very good move. Weasley was forcing him to retreat, making him waste time while dancing his knight about the board avoiding capture. Gold stared at the board, wondering when his clever control of diagonals had dissolved into such undeveloped pieces. Nothing but a half-advanced bishop and one lonely, harassed knight. "Knight to C6," he growled, at last, realizing it was his only move.

Weasley gave him a serene look with more than an edge of smugness behind it, and captured Gold's C6 knight with his D7 pawn - opening up a diagonal for Ron's untouched bishop in the process. His old, battered pawn, features worn smooth by the touch of dozens of Weasley hands, stuck its little spear through Gold's marble stallion and struck it down.

The first major capture. It was easy to choke, at this point in the game. Gold refused to lose. "Pawn to E3." That, at least, would let him get his bishop out from behind the line of pawns.

"Bishop to F5." Ron seemed to relent slightly. "It's not really about the money at all, though, is it? So justice doesn't do much good."

"What's it about then, Weasley?" asked Gold, hoping to stall for time while he figured out how to salvage the board.

"I'm wearing Bill's old robes and that means I've got to live up to Bill's old legacy, doesn't it?"

Gold glanced up at him, meeting Weasley's eyes. Ah. Something he understood. "How many brothers do you _have_?"

"Five," said Ron, with a scowl. "Plus Ginny."

"You win. Just the three, for me."

"All older?"

"Mm. Queen to C2."

"Bill's a codebreaker in Egypt, used to be Head Boy - Charlie was a Quidditch star and now he trains dragons in Romania - Percy was Head Boy too and now he's in the sodding Ministry, the twins run their own business, Ginny's brilliant and she's the only girl to boot, she'll always be special - but no matter _what_ I do nobody'll notice, it'll just be _expected _because they've done it all already."

Gold relayed his own brothers' accomplishments in his head. It sounded like an echo. "All handsome and charming too, I'll bet."

"Bill has this _earring_. I couldn't pull it off in a million years. Queen to E7."

Now that Ron had reinforced his E pawn with the placement of his queen, Gold couldn't easily take it out, and it posed a serious threat to his belated attempts to develop his bishop. He settled for moving it out just far enough to avoid the threat of the black pawn. At least that way he could castle. "Bishop to E2. How d'you think _I _feel?"

"What, 'cos they're all... thin and that?"

"Well, yes - though I wish that wasn't where your mind immediately flew - and easygoing and likeable and _not Slyths." _Gold wasn't certain whether being Slytherin alone was enough to qualify him for the status of 'damaged goods', but if not, then everything else surely did. "I realize I've made my bed, and will lie in it, but if one more starry-eyed Huff asks me if Avi's single or not I will tear someone's head off."

Ron castled queenside. "That used to happen with the twins a lot. I wasn't having a go, you know. _You_ brought it up."

"I know." So he had a defensive streak, so what? "Pawn to F4."

"Knight to G4."

Gold stared at the board, and realized, with a creeping horror, that anger had made his previous move far too hasty. Weasley's castle was not just a castle. His rook now threatened Gold's D2 pawn, straight through the long, empty aisle that ran down the board - only a few moves away from his king. How there was a knight threatening yet another pawn, two moves away from his queen. And if the black queen got to H4 he'd be mere moments away from a checkmate. Weasley was _forking _him, the little sneak. So much for castling. All Gold could possibly do was advance a pawn to block himself from attack from H4. "Pawn to G3," he growled.

Ron showed no sign of gloating. Suddenly he barely seemed aware of how brilliantly he was playing, as if his mind was elsewhere. "What are you so worried about looks for, anyway? At least you're _clever_. Once school's over you can go off and be a professor of Arithmancy or something. Everybody knows I'm the thick one."

"And the title 'professor of Arithmancy' is supposed to make girls fancy me, is it?" he asked, with all the sarcasm he could muster.

"It works on _one_ girl," muttered Weasley, with a dark look.

"For fuck's sake, Weasley, you idiot!" Gold had no idea why he was suddenly so angry. "I'm not your romantic rival, alright? You're the _last _person on earth to figure this out."

"But you fancy her."

"_A broch, a deigeh hob ich_! What does it matter who I fancy? I'm-" Gold cut himself off. The words _I'm not like the rest of you_ stilled on his tongue. He breathed out a particularly foul Yiddish curse and raised his gaze to meet Weasley's eyes. Weasley was giving him an odd look. "Look, if it reassures you, I'm not after Granger at _all_, but why the hell do you need my reassurance? You're a long fucking way from stupid."

"You called me an idiot not fifteen seconds ago," Weasley objected, his frown creasing his brow.

Gold attempted to wave the insult away. "The only thing that makes you _look _like an idiot is your massive inferiority complex. If you were stupid you wouldn't be murdering me at chess."

Ron turned his attention to the board, and seemed to fully notice the fork he'd created, the cluster of attacks he had primed in Gold's direction. "Game's not over. I could still lose."

"Sure you could," muttered Gold. They were still competing - but the competition had ceased to be about superiority. Now they were competing for pity. It was new ground, and Gold was not yet sure of his footing on it. "Move, already."

"Pawn to H5."

"See? I'm fucked. All I can do is threaten your knight, and then you'll let me have it because you can easily win without it. Pawn to H3."

"...Yes, that's exactly what I'm going to do," admitted Weasley. "Pawn to H4."

Gold swore, and took Ron's G4 knight. Fat lot of good it would do him; Ron's pawns were steadily advancing like a line of hoplites and he had all but cleared the H4 diagonal. Once he had that diagonal his queen would be in the perfect position to make mincemeat of Gold's king. Checkmate loomed.

"Hello, boys, who's winning?"

Gold looked up from the board with a start. Hermione Granger was approaching them from around the lake. "See for yourself," said Gold, with a disgusted gesture at the board.

Granger sat down between them and peered at it. "Merlin, I don't know. I'm awful at chess. You've got about the same number of pieces."

"I'm destroying him," said Ron.

"He's destroying me," said Gold.

Granger smiled, and put her arms round both their necks. "How about you surrender, then, and we go and finish our Transfiguration essays?"

Just out of Granger's view, Gold caught Weasley mouthing the word 'no' with a look of horror on his face. He grinned. "Sorry, Granger. My pride won't permit that. I want to see exactly what he's got planned."

Granger gave them a parting smile and headed back towards the castle.

"Well, go on then," said Gold. "Crush me like a bug." Nature had destined him to lose. Maybe losing with courage could be as honourable as winning.

Ron obliged.

* * *

><p><strong>A short little update, because while Gold doesn't celebrate Christmas, I do, and family is keeping me rather busy. Their game is taken directly from Larsen vs. Spassky 1970, one of the great games, and a beautiful example of those qualities that make Ron a great player - he knows how to make sacrifices and values his pawns.<strong>

**For all those interested, I've done up a wee sketch of David Gold. Remove the asterisks from this URL:**

** i147*.photobucket.*com/albums/r281/linnellisgod/Gold_zps6ff65800*.png**

**Up next: A continuation of 'Letters', an AU in which Harry encounters the young David Gold on the Hogwarts Express in their first year (I wasn't originally planning to, but it was requested, and on consideration, it may be interesting) and an encounter between a grown-up Hermione and a very dead Gold. Possibly not in that order. We shall see.**

**Throw me a review with your suggestions! I use them!**


	13. Letters, pt 2

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This is in response to a desire for more of the other brothers.

Part 12: A continuation of 'Letters'. Set in March of year seven. Everybody pities the victim, but who remembers to pity those around him?

* * *

><p>Morning caught him unawares. No natural light reached the inner chambers of the lab. Much of the brewing they did was very sensitive to natural light, and so the Dunsinane School had been built with almost no windows in the whole structure, and the few narrow, slitted windows had been covered with thick tapestry. Avi did his work by everything from candlelight to purple phosphorescence, and often lost track of time.<p>

His bench was a cluttered mess of letters - parchment from Poppy Pomfrey and the Prince, modern loose-leaf from Ben and Samson. The embers of his cauldron-fire illuminated his face, casting everything in a rosy glow. With one hand Avi scattered sealing-wax through the coals, raising tongues of yellow flame, while his other hand stirred the clear distillation simmering in his smallest silver cauldron. Periodically he added fine shreds of yew-bark, and watched them disappear into the mix in a shimmer of sparks.

"Mornin', Avi."

Avi flinched, moving to protectively cover his cauldron. "Speak'st not in thy modern and most vulgar tongue! See, my cauldron-fire is lit; the incantations ill-disturbed by easy speech will be. I temper wyrm venom by this flame, with yew and moonstone well combined."

The trouble with Dunsinane - and also perhaps its great strength - was that it had been founded upon incantatory principles of high linguistics. The school's founders had stumbled in a very literal sense upon that which many Muggles had known figuratively for many years; the notion that words themselves had power, regardless of language. The Dunsinane School was built the same year as the great Bard's death, in 1601, as an addition (visible only to magical eyes) to the old Dunsinane Castle. The whole building reverberated with accumulated verbal magic. And Avi's tempering protocol was particularly sensitive to anything that might break the spell.

Olivia, one of the grad students, raised her hands in apology. Her thick Scots accent lent an odd cadence to her speech. "My pardons to thy name. Good Avriel, stay'st thou the night at thy table?"

"'Good', thou hast call'd me," said Avi, with a trace of a sigh, "and good I shall be ere my labours be complete."

"Nay, thou art good in thy heart, and thy acts show thy goodness yet. What dost thou with wyrm venoms, richest and foulest of nectars?"

"The tempering thereof, without the robbing of their teeth, for that which flows like milk from the tooth shall not be toothless. Would that such milk would flow through the kind canals of the brain, and so sink teeth into that flesh which is most unkindly!"

Olivia took her usual place and started up her cauldron's fire. "Why so, good Avriel? 'Tis not thy business; our lordly and most wise professor has not bade thee thus, though in truth he be a Crassus, a driver of slaves."

Avi snorted. "Nay, not our professor, may patience stay his hand - 'tis my blood and name hast bade me, full 'gainst his will."

"Thy blood?"

"'Good' thou hast call'd me, and I answered you thus. 'Avriel', thou hast call'd me, and this takes the meaning 'father' in that tongue which to our sacred nation is dear. So bound am I to my father, by blood and by name, and likewise to my brothers by the blood of our good father, as King to future King. Each brother hath bade me lend my arts, in aid of he the youngest, who, though furthest from our throne, is yet most Kingly among us. David, he, named for that most learned King of Israel, and in this he is most Golden of our house – for that most kingly metal has not modesty about it, but fierce and thunderous pride. His nature, like his name, be alchemic, the sum of quick changes and of draughts both fair and foul. In truth, he is an adder – to clutch him to the breast is but to earn his fangs. Yet our father and of our most good mother grant him favour above us all, and for their sakes I do study this most bewitching venom."

Olivia gave him a gently chiding look. "Love thee thy brother?"

Avi sighed again, aware that he was ranting, that such talk would have broken his mother's heart. "He is not lovely - Yet I do love him."

"What, then, be his infirmity?"

"He hath a worm in his skull, good Livia, a hard and sickly worm. His brain is o'ertook with such perversion as may enslave the flesh, and so doth turn against him. That great crab, that canker, whose claws circle most oft round bodies old and venerable – so pinches it now a younger prey, and more unnatural the pinching, for it pinches too early."

She gave him a sad and gentle look. "I am most aggrieved, good Avriel," she told him, after a moment's silence.

"And I am sick of grief," spat Avi. Her words should have comforted him, but he found no comfort in them. "Would that I could loose the bonds that keep me at my table, and this most leprous venom – distilled at my great pains – drown in the fulsome sea! If I could so dilute the venom of my brother's claims to _mine own heart_ – Happy, good Livia, _happy would I be_!" His voice cracked; he stared at his hands.

When he spoke again the words were calm, measured. "But it is not just, that I should think so. Nothing, nothing is just. Justice is handless. Attend me no longer – I'll be master of my grievances, and a servant most sweet to David, this thou shalt see. Nay – like great alchemics past, I'll turn him ere to Gold, that he may go untarnished for all ages."

"Thou art too good, Avriel," murmured Olivia, laying a hand on his shoulder. When she had left him in peace, Avi rested his forehead to his desk for a moment, focused on the sound of his own breath. And when the world seemed to make sense again, he returned to brewing with a feverish vigour.

* * *

><p>Gold sat up in bed, blankets piled around him and bed-hangings drawn against the world, and ran one finger absently over the head of the tiny owl that perched on his knee, over and over again.<p>

The insomnia was recent. Say what you would of everything else that was the matter with him; at least when he laid his head down every night, he fell asleep quickly, bone-tired and with a clear conscience. Not anymore. There were things skittering around in his skull, kicking up dust-trails of thought in every direction.

He wasn't the only Slytherin to do so. Malfoy never seemed to sleep either. Sometimes Gold caught him thumbing through his collection of ethical philosophy texts, and pretended not to notice as Malfoy stole glances at Hume and Spinoza. What did he care? He didn't need them any more. He'd already left them all to Draco in his will - not out of any good feeling, but because if it didn't _benefit_ the scrawny little shit, it would at least confuse the hell out of him. Malfoy... Malfoy had surely noticed the new hours spent awake, though he hadn't commented. Privately, Gold wondered if Malfoy wasn't making an effort to leave him alone. If so, it was one of the few pieces of sympathy he'd ever actually appreciated.

His owl seemed to know something was amiss. The owl - a tiny orb of feathers who lived under the noble name of Pocket - was normally a bitey, vicious little thing. Over the years he'd given Gold more scars than he cared to count. But lately Pocket had showed a gentleness, even an affection, for his owner. He did not extend such loyalty to anyone else.

Tonight, Pocket let out a soft _hoo_ and looked up at Gold with huge, mournful eyes, nuzzling against his hand.

"Not long now, Pock," Gold whispered, so softly that his lips barely moved. "One way or the other."

Another soft sound. Feathers brushing against his hand.

"One last letter once I'm gone. You'll do that for me, won't you boy?"

In the top drawer of his dresser, spelled to reveal itself upon his death and bind to Pocket's leg, a letter waited, addressed to Hermione Granger.

* * *

><p>She was restocking her supply of dreamless sleep when she felt the summons. Letting it pull her, Poppy followed it down the corridors of Hogwarts, towards the dungeons. That was where it usually pulled her.<p>

Poppy might not have been to SIMT, or Dunsinane for that matter, but there was nothing wrong with her education and _certainly_ nothing wrong with her mind. She knew half her students were engaged in guerrilla warfare, and she knew the Hospital Wing could not be a safe haven forever, especially if her patients had tangled with the Carrows. Not long after hearing of the summoning spell the Snatchers were using to track down anyone who dared speak the word 'Voldemort', she had re-purposed that same spell to take her to the injured.

A high, cruel voice echoed down the stone corridors ahead. Alecto Carrow. "_Crucio!_"

No screams. That narrowed it down. Poppy pressed herself up against the stone wall, edging closer. Alecto was around the nearest corner, close enough to be cursed, if not for the stone wall between them.

"Where are they?"

After a time, a male voice replied, scratchy and indistinct. Poppy couldn't make out the words, but they seemed not to please Alecto, for a moment later there was the all-too-familiar sound of a boot connecting with flesh.

"Maybe cruciatus is too clean," said the voice of Amycus Carrow. "_Frendo!_"

That spell was meant for nothing more than inflicting crushing and bruising injury. It made a deep _crunch_. Poppy bit her lip until it bled. She ought to step forward, do _something_ - it was killing her not to - but she was no duellist. She could not match both Carrows at once. If she was incapacitated, the children would be totally exposed...

"Fuck you," rasped the voice of the victim. "You ignoble cowards-" And it choked into inaudibility again.

"_Sectumsempra!_"

Silence fell.

"Well, blood traitor, ready to speak yet?"

There was no response.

"You've knocked him unconscious, you idiot!" snapped Amycus. "We'll get nothing from him now!"

"So wait until he awakes," said Alecto, carelessly.

"_If_ he awakes-" suddenly Amycus fell silent.

"Amycus. Alecto." The slow, silken voice of Seveus Snape was unmistakeable. "I confess I did not expect to find you here."

"Headmaster-" The Carrows seemed to know they were in trouble.

"Did I not specifically tell you to leave the pureblood lines untouched?" asked Severus, with perfect calm.

"But, Headmaster - this one, he's-"

"I know, you fools. If the Dark Lord had not commanded it I would gladly throw him off the top of the astronomy tower along with some inconsequential first-year and test Aristotle's hypothesis concerning the speed of fall of heavy objects versus light."

The Carrows sniggered.

Snape silenced them. "But _the Dark Lord has commanded it_ and so we will obey without question."

"Of course - our apologies, Headmaster -"

"Get out of my sight."

Sharp footsteps signalled the Carrows' withdrawal. There was a rustle of robes. "You can come out now, Poppy," said Severus.

Poppy rounded the corner. David Gold lay in a crumpled heap on the cobbles, bleeding from long gashes across his face. His left arm looked like it had been trampled underfoot again and again. Spiral fracture in the radius, Poppy guessed, and fractured metacarpals, at least two of them. Above him, Severus knelt with his hair in curtains about his face, murmuring healing spells to keep the boy from bleeding out. Poppy set to work.

Her diagnostic spells caught a spiral fracture, not two but three metacarpal fractures as well as a dislocation of the wrist, a rib fracture, a broken nose (_broken nose number twenty-seven_, she imagined the boy quipping) and the telltale traces of the gashes carved by _Sectumsempra_, even as Severus knitted them closed with a river of Latin incantations. She could heal the breaks with her wand, but not the inflammation, nor the damage to skin and deeper tissue.

"I think he's doing this on purpose," she murmured, when at last the silky voice fell silent. "Poor boy."

"I doubt he would appreciate your pity," said Severus, getting to his feet.

"No..." She brushed a lock of Gold's hair from his face, her voice softening. "He reminds me of _you _at that age, Severus. You were always getting scraped up too. Homely boys, all piss and vinegar, so proud of your minds..."

Severus snorted. Poppy didn't think she'd flattered either one of them. "I was more intelligent, and tended to make poorer choices, though, unlike master Gold's, both my ugliness and my ill temper are hereditary, and not of my own making."

_You both mooned after a Muggleborn girl you knew was too good for you_, thought Poppy, but she had the sense not to say it. "He could teach you a thing or two about hair-care," she said, instead, a small smile worming its way onto her face, in spite of the gravity of the situation, in spite of everything.

"Do shut up, Poppy."

"If I were to bring him to the Hospital Wing... could you keep the Carrows out?"

Severus shook his head. "I cannot afford any test of my cover."

Poppy met his eyes. "I know you're the Prince. You've helped us thus far - the wyrm venom -"

But what she saw in Snape's dark gaze silenced her utterly. His eyes had a glassy quality, sitting like marbles in dark hollows. He was gaunter and more sallow than ever she had known him to be, and she had known him since a scrawny boy from a bad household, malnourished and neglected-looking and bearing old scars that frightened her.

"Severus..."

He twitched away. "Tend to the boy."

"You're not well."

"I am tired. Tend to the boy. I will send my findings to Avriel Gold in three days' time, when the venom preparation is complete."

Poppy put her hands on her hips. "Severus, you can't do this any longer. You cannot run a school, supply complex potions, maintain your cover, protect the students' safety _and_ conduct research all at the same time. It's not possible."

Suddenly he took her by the shoulders - a gesture that would have terrified her, a month ago, but that now seemed... as gentle, as personal, as a man like Severus Snape was capable of being. "Please, Poppy - let there be no more deaths on my hands. Please."

He looked so haunted that for a moment Poppy could hardly speak. But she was never robbed of words for long. "David is not on your hands. It's a fool's errand trying to save him like this. You said so yourself. So much rests on you."

She could see the opposition in his eyes. Then it died, ceding quietly to exhaustion. "Contact his brothers," said Severus, "and have the D.A. extract him. He will be safer with them, until he recovers enough to properly get himself killed."

She gripped his arm. "We did what we could."

* * *

><p>The passage from the room of requirement to the Hog's Head seemed to go on forever - not tall enough to stand in, the floor too rough to kneel on. Neville was glad he'd finally mastered the float-and-carry form of <em>leviosa,<em> or it would have been agonizing going. He didn't think he was capable of dragging David Gold.

Maybe if they'd left him in the R.o.R. for another day or two he might have recovered enough to crawl along with only a little help, but Merlin only knew if he'd go willingly by then. Besides, it didn't seem _right_, keeping him amongst the others while he was _talking_ like this. Neville knew better than most that people had a right to their secrets. Gold had a strange fever, a fever not even Poppy could bring down, and he was saying things Neville didn't think he would mean to say if he were properly awake...

It mostly didn't make sense, thank Merlin. But it gave an impression all the same. Somehow it was reassuring to think that people as cocky as Gold was, on the surface, were actually just the same sort of sad, broken marionette that Neville had always known himself to be.

He'd also come to the far _less_ reassuring conclusion that Gold was absolutely bedlam. There was a lot of insane, undirected anger in his fever-talk, and even more of death and dying. None of the D.A. needed to hear it. Neville knew there'd be lives lost, but as Harry's deputy it was his duty to keep up spirits, to preserve a glimmer of hope and help them remember there was some good in the world. He couldn't _do_ that with a fever-demented snake prophesying incoherently about the demons eating his mind.

"Neyn - neyn, won't go - Hogwarts - it has to be _for_ something - my numbers - __Lech lehizdayen_, mamzer bastard, let me be! _I won't die for nothing but numbers!"

"Shh. Nearly there."

* * *

><p>Ben sprayed his wand down with 70% ethanol, then doused his gloved hands and took his seat, sticking his forearms below the glass sash of the biosafety cabinet. But for a few magical augmentations, like the constant and shimmering white light of the purifying charm suspended above the air filter to strip incoming air of any last traces of bacteria, it looked just like standard Muggle lab equipment - a sterile metal work surface enclosed by glass, but for a small gap for his hands. Very few spells had been invented post-microbial theory, and the guys down in Tech were still working on a good charm for totally antiseptic conditions. So far, nothing kept the bugs out better than the Muggle tech. SIMT were reluctant to accept the superiority of <em>anything<em> Muggle, but not so reluctant as the rest of the wizarding world. They would bow to necessity.

Ben used a micropipette to draw up 10μL of Avi's most recent tempered wyrm venom solution, said a quick mental prayer, and added it to the plate of mouse brain carcinoma cells he'd been keeping in culture. He noted the exact time on a stopwatch and mixed it carefully with the nutrient medium in which the cells were grown.

Two agonizing hours later, he harvested the live cells with a _circumfrico _spell and ran a standard magimetric assay for p-glycoprotein function. A flash of white light, and the assay results appeared burnished in miniscule letters on the lid of the microcentrifuge tube that held the cells.

_p-glycoprotein: 47 +/- 1.2 % functional_

_off-target: 78 ___+/- 4.6 _%_

It was an improvement - the first time their impromptu, long-distance research team had ever gotten more than a 50% inhibition of p-glycoprotein. That meant it might actually stand a beggar's chance of getting into David's brain. But the off-target effects were still high. They would kill him long before the cancer would have.

Ben swore, and nearly threw the tube across the room.

* * *

><p>That evening, he flooed Avi. His back, already sore from hours spent ramrod-straight in the biosafety cabinet, protested greatly at the awkward angle of the fireplace, but it was far faster than Oceancrosser.<p>

"Avi!"

His brother was still awake, despite the time difference. Avi's usually cheerful face was pale and drawn.

"Ben... Did it work?"

Ben winced. "...No."

"I thought not."

"You don't look so good."

It was then that Ben noticed the letters in his brother's hands. "We're calling it off," said Avi, as if he expected the sky to open and rain lightning down on him.

"We're- what?"

"Don't be angry at me, Benjy, please."

Avi looked so young, so pained, that Ben _couldn't_ be angry. Getting angry at Avi was a useless endeavor anyway_ - _he was incapable of giving less than his all. "...I'm not angry. Just... why?"

"The Prince bowed out. Then Poppy wrote me and said David's not even in the _school_ any more - things have gotten so bad there, he got himself attacked again and a student resistance group actually _smuggled him out of the castle-_ What good is a drug if we can't _get_ it to him?"

"Poppy might be able to give it to one of them if we knew for certain the drug worked-"

Avi shook his head. "Sam was right. We can't do this. It's just not feasible to find a novel brain cancer treatment on this timeline - even if we were profs with whole labs working for us and years of experience and -"

"Avi... I've never known you to give up."

"_Good intentions do not miracles make!_" He'd started to run his hands through his wiry hair. Ben worried he might start tearing it out at any moment. "I can't _do_ this any more, Ben! I can't work 24 hours a day and get shouted at by my prof for not doing what I'm _paid_ to do, I just can't any more! _Have you ever been shouted at in Shakespearian prose before, Ben? Have you?_"

"Calm down," said Ben, as gently as he could.

"Why do you think Samson ran off to fuck-all nowhere, northern Canada? Why should we have to feel like we're _responsible_ for the cancer? Why does it always fall on _us_?" Avi paused, panting. "I'd run away to Nunavut myself if I thought it wouldn't chase me there."

Ben's heart broke along old, old faultlines.

"Avi... You're right. I'm having no success on my end, and without the Prince we don't have a hope... you've done more for him than any other human would. You always have."

Massive, fearful brown eyes met Ben's gaze. "Why doesn't it feel like enough?" asked Avi, in the smallest voice he had ever heard.

_Because life's not fair,_ Ben wanted to say, but he couldn't find his voice. He watched from the embers while Avi dissolved into tears, and wished he could have hugged him through the fire.

**Poor Avi. Once upon a time you were going to be my comic relief.**

**My apologies to Shakespeare's ghost. Please R&R!**


	14. The Colour of a Tie

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

This is in response to several requests for an AU in which the first person Harry meets, while boarding the Hogwarts Express, is not Ron Weasley but David Gold. It didn't come easily 0 they naturally antagonize each other to an extent. Still, I did me best.

Part 13: Set in first year, an AU. A chance meeting precipitates a new path.

* * *

><p>Harry was now trying hard not to panic. According to the large clock over the arrivals board, he had ten minutes left to get on the train to Hogwarts and he had no idea how to do it; he was stranded in the middle of a station with a trunk he could hardly lift, a pocket full of wizard money, and a large owl.<p>

At that moment a group of people passed just behind him and he caught a few words of what they were saying.

"- I'll help you with your trunk, Duddeleh - "

It sounded so much like someone saying 'Dudley' in a funny voice that Harry swung round to look. The speaker was one of four dark-haired boys with the same black eyes. Each of them was pushing a trunk like Harry's - and each one had an owl.

He had been speaking to the youngest boy. The youngest even _looked_ like Dudley - he was about Harry's age but a lot plumper than Harry, or any of his brothers, and he had that same slightly pampered look that Dudley always had. His clothes looked like somebody had spent a lot of money on them and taken a lot of care to press them that morning. He looked sullen. "_Stop_ that," he growled, angrily.

Suddenly Harry felt sure Hogwarts was going to be _just_ like going to primary school with Dudley, magic or no magic.

"He can get it on his own, Avi," said the eldest boy, who was very nearly a grown-up. He was tall and broad-shouldered - more athletic and sturdy than the middle two, who were very slender - and the look on his face was older than his years.

"I was just trying to help," said the second-youngest brother.

"I don't _need_ help," snapped the chubby one. He nodded across the platform at a group of girls who looked like tourists. "Look, there's a female human, go help _her_. She'll probably thank you, and you'll mistake it for an invitation to dinner-"

"Actually, why don't we?" said the second-oldest brother, eyeing the girls with obvious interest. "Look at that one, the redhead."

The eldest smacked him on the back of the head. "Show some respect."

"Oww."

"Yeah, Sam, show some respect. Sexist."

"Don't be a brat, Duddel," chided the one called Avi.

"Don't call me Duddel, A-_vree_-el!"

The eldest looked ready to tear his hair out. "Will you all shut up for five seconds so I can make sure we're not forgetting anything? Alright. Thank you. Owls?"

"Obviously."

"Books? Wands?"

"You're worse than mum."

"Spectacles, testicles, wallet and watch?" piped up Avi, and got slapped on the back of his head for his trouble.

"David, you're _certain_ you're ready?"

"Bog this, I'm going in," said the second-eldest, and took off at a run - straight towards the barrier. Harry winced and closed his eyes, waiting for the inevitable crash - but it never came. The second-eldest boy was just... gone.

There was nothing for it.

"Excuse me," said Harry to the eldest boy.

"Oh, hello there - are you a first-year too?" he asked, kindly, crouching slightly to look Harry in the eye.

"Yes," said Harry. "The thing is - the thing is, I don't know how to-"

"Get onto the platform?" asked Avi. "It's simple, don't worry. It's always confusing for the ones from Muggle families but really there's nothing to it."

"We can show you," offered the eldest.

"_I'll _show him," said the youngest one, and stepped forward, looking Harry over. Harry squirmed, wishing Avi would just show him instead and hoping his fringe was covering his scar. "I'll go through first and wait for you. All you have to do is walk straight into it and don't hesitate."

Harry wanted to ask why he wouldn't crash, but the youngest boy's tone brooked no argument. He nodded weakly.

The youngest boy took off at a purposeful march and disappeared straight into the barrier.

Harry swallowed, and followed him.

* * *

><p>The youngest of the brothers might not have been very nice, but he seemed to know what he was doing. He found them an empty compartment and stretched out on the seat.<p>

"Er- you don't want to sit with your brothers?"

"Pfft. No." He glanced over at Harry. "What did you say your name was?"

"I, er, I didn't - it's Harry."

Suddenly the boy's eyes got very wide. "_Ayeh_- you're never -" He was looking at Harry's scar.

"Yeah," said Harry, and shifted his fringe to show him the scar. "Er. I grew up with Muggles so, I mean-"

"-You've no idea who you are," surmised the other boy, sitting up to look at Harry with a very intent look in his black eyes.

"People have told me, but it... it doesn't feel real. Suddenly being somebody I didn't even know I was."

"You should use that to your advantage. Remake yourself. I'm going to." He stuck out a chubby hand. "David Gold."

Harry shook it, warily, still waiting for the mockery and insults he felt sure were coming. "I thought your name was... er... Duddel-ey?"

"Oh, that. That's just a stupid nickname. Means _little David._ Because my stupid brothers still think I'm five, apparently."

"Your brothers are all wizards?" asked Harry, who wanted to know more about the older ones. _They_ were the way he'd pictured wizards in the past month.

"Whole family."

"It must be nice, having three older wizard brothers."

"There's parts of it I could do without," said David, darkly.

Harry was really beginning to think he didn't much like David Gold, but he didn't want to be there on his own. He asked David whether or not he already knew any magic, and David got out his wand and did a few little spells - lighting up the tip of it, levitating a paperclip.

"I'm going to be rubbish," said Harry, gloomily. "I'm going to be worst in the year." At least back home he'd gotten better grades than Dudley. Here, even the Dudley seemed to know a whole lot more than he did.

Suddenly the compartment door opened, and a girl with very bushy hair appeared. "Has anyone seen a toad? A boy called Neville's lost one."

"Neyn, I mean no."

Suddenly her eyes lit up. "Are you doing magic?" Without waiting for an answer, the girl came in and took a seat next to Harry. "Let's see it, then."

David smirked. "_Nasar_," he said, and a shower of gold sparks poured from the tip of his wand.

The girl tilted her head. "Is that a _real_ spell?"

"Works, doesn't it?"

"Yes, but - it's not Latin."

"Who says spells have to be in Latin?" asked David.

"Principles of Incantation, by Albéric Ershod, page 32," said the bushy-haired girl, "The primary language of spellwork is Latin, due to its extensive history and cultural and narrative power."

David waved his hand. "Western-centric twaddle."

Harry felt very, very lost. His stomach sank.

"Oh really?" asked the girl, arching an eyebrow.

"You just saw."

"Sparks are _easy_. Do some really difficult magic in another language."

"No."

"Why not? Scared?"

"Hah. No. It's a family secret."

"Sure. I bet you can't do any."

David scowled and set his jaw. "_Hadlakat nerot._"

Harry nearly shrieked. A ball of flame burst into life in the middle of the compartment, and was gone just as quickly.

The girl looked impressed. "I'm Hermione Granger," she said, offering David a handshake. "Was that Hebrew?"

David and Hermione spent the whole rest of the train ride talking animatedly about things they'd read and heard about Hogwarts. David seemed more excited than he'd let on. Hermione, as it turned out, was from a Muggle family, but, like David, she'd read what sounded like a whole library about the wizarding world. David answered every question her books hadn't, clearly very proud of his knowledge. He was good at explaining things - so was Hermione - and Harry learned a lot, but mostly, what he learned was just how far behind he really seemed to be. By the time they got to Hogwarts he felt sick with nerves and his hands were shaking.

David stopped him as they headed out of the compartment, letting Hermione go on ahead, out of earshot. "Potter, are you alright?" he asked, and for a moment he actually looked concerned, instead of just smug and clever.

"...Nervous," Harry admitted. "Everybody _knows_ so much."

"You'll catch up. You're not stupid."

_No_, thought Harry, _I'm not. _He'd show David Gold and Hermione Granger as much, too.

* * *

><p>"Hmm," said the voice of the hat in his ear. "Difficult. Very difficult. Plenty of courage, I see. Not a bad mind either. There's talent, A my goodness, yes - and a nice thirst to prove yourself, now that's interesting... So where shall I put you?"<p>

_Gryffindor or Slytherin, Gryffindor or Slytherin... _David and Hermione were the _only_ people he'd met and they seemed to tolerate him and he couldn't bear to be alone.

"Oh, well then, that's easy - _SLYTHERIN!_"

* * *

><p>Harry threw open his trunk and started pulling out books, plunking them onto his bed with more force than was strictly necessary. He couldn't <em>believe<em> he had detention and class hadn't even really started. _Why_ had David needed to hex Malfoy? And Snape, the ugly teacher with the greasy hair - why had he blamed _Harry_ as well?

"How come Snape hates you, Harry?" asked David, from the next bed.

"I don't know, _you're_ the one who cast the stupid spell," spat Harry.

"It's not my fault he decided to blame you, I said you had no part in it."

"Well, maybe if you hadn't done it to begin with-"

David hesitated, and swallowed, looking at his shoes. "...Look, I'm sorry."

Dudley had never _once_ apologized to him. Harry softened very slightly. "Well why'd you do it then?"

"I wasn't thinking, I was angry! Don't you think it's _wrong_? That it's like this? I thought - I thought I could forget the past, I thought everybody with magic was supposed to get a fresh chance at Hogwarts, and _now_ we find out it's full of bigots and elitists and - I hate this. Slytherin house is rotten." To Harry's surprise, he grabbed his knees and curled up into a ball, looking miserable and very young. "It was supposed to be different."

Harry knew just how he felt but he also had a flicker of anger still burning. _I was supposed to get away from Dudley and actually be special for once, and then you turned up, and now I'm useless all over again... _He said nothing. Instead, he opened up a textbook, closed his bed hangings, and started to read.

Everything was quiet until Harry heard the sound of a group of boys coming up the stairs and into the dormitory.

"Well well well," said the voice of Draco Malfoy. "Look who it is."

"Bugger off, Malfoy, don't make me hex you again."

Harry could hear the sneer in Malfoy's voice. "Foreign magic won't save you now. There's five of us and one of you. So you'd better apologize or else."

"Good for you, you can count," answered Gold, carelessly. "Very brave, too, ganging up like that. Classy."

"Goyle, knock his face in."

That was it. He pulled back his bed-hangings. "Hey. Malfoy. Leave us alone."

"Potter?" The four Slytherins, led by Malfoy, had advanced towards David's bunk with their wands out. Malfoy shook his head at Harry. "Last chance, Potter - if you want to survive long in this house you ought to be more careful of the company you keep. I can help you out there."

"No thanks," said Harry, more bravely than he felt. "I like him a lot more than I like you."

"Going to fight us then? Two on five? Zabini, you and Goyle take the fat one - Crabbe, Rowle and I can handle Potter."

Harry glanced at David, and they pulled their wands out.

* * *

><p>"You've been <em>fighting<em>?"

Hermione was over at their table for breakfast, with a dozen books and a colour-coded schedule in tow. Like Harry she seemed too nervous for classes to eat. David, on the other hand, was too busy eating to answer her.

"We didn't really have a choice," said Harry, weakly. He was exhausted. Last night's tussle had left him bruised, and on top of that he'd spent the whole night up reading his textbooks, desperate to catch up. He was fairly sure it had been a bad idea, now. He felt totally drained. All the new knowledge bounced noisily around in his skull.

"But it's _against the rules_."

"An unjus' law 'sno law a' all," said David, with his mouth full of fried egg.

"What? _Stop_ that, David, it's disgusting."

He made a face at her and swallowed. "An unjust law is no law at all. They ganged up on us, what were we supposed to do? Go to Snape? He hates Harry's guts for no reason. Harry defended me."

"They couldn't have ganged up on you. Why would they?"

"You're a Gryffindor, Hermione. You should come see what Slytherin's like. You're Muggleborn, do you know what they'd call you?"

Both Harry and Hermione stared at him, confused.

"Ugh, you're going to make me say it. That was supposed to be rhetorical. I hate the word. It's loathsome. Never repeat it."

They nodded.

David lowered his voice. "Mudblood. I overheard them. I've heard it other places but I didn't think _anyone_ would ever use it openly - they think being related to Muggles makes your blood dirty."

Harry immediately glanced at Hermione. Her face made him wish David had held his tongue.

"I never thought Magic would have such an ugly side," mumbled Harry.

"I should have let the hat sort me Gryffindor. It wanted to."

"Why didn't you?"

David said nothing.

"We can't be the only good Slytherins," said Harry, after a moment. "We just _can't _be."

* * *

><p>"Potter! What would I get if I added powdered root of asphodel to an infusion of wormwood?"<p>

Hermione and David's hands shot into the air.

Harry bit his lip, racing to remember. He'd read this, last night, or rather very, very early that morning... "The - the draught of living death, sir."

"And where might I find a bezoar?"

"The... stomach of a cow."

Snape's eyes glittered. Harry knew suddenly that he'd gotten it wrong. "A goat, Potter, a goat. Clearly, fame isn't everything... Very well, let us try again. What is the difference between monkshood and wolfsbane?"

"Aren't they the same plant, sir?"

"Well, are they or aren't they?"

Harry tried to catch either Hermione or David's eyes, for some clue, but they were busy trying to catch Snape's.

"...Yes," said Harry, trying to sound sure of himself. "Yes they are."

Snape paused. His face was totally unreadable. After a moment, he said, "Yes they are, _sir_, and if you fail to address me by my proper title again, Potter, you will find yourself in detention."

Harry fumed inwardly at the unfairness of it. "Yes, sir."

David partnered Hermione, so Harry - feeling think and left-out yet again - partnered a Gryffindor stranger named Ron Weasley. Ron had bright red hair, freckles and a long, thin nose, and he gave Harry a hopeless little smile. "That was bollocks - you got them all right-"

"Except the goat."

"Goat, cow, who cares?" Ron was looking up at him very admiringly. It was a strange feeling. "I didn't know _any_ of them."

"...Really? I though... I thought they were easy, I thought all wizards knew this stuff."

Ron shook his head. "Did you see the rest of the class? There were only those two with their hands up."

"But I spent all night up reading-"

"You _what_?"

Harry quickly realized he liked Ron very much. By the end of the potions class, Snape had come up with excuses to dock the Gryffindors almost thirty points and give Harry _yet another_ detention, but Harry didn't even mind - he didn't feel useless any more.

* * *

><p>"So yer a Slytherin." Hagrid pressed a mug of tea into Harry's hand and nudged a platter of rock cakes towards him.<p>

"I want to be re-sorted," said Harry, miserably. It was only then that he remembered what Hagrid had said about Slytherin house at King's Cross Station. Would Hagrid think _he _ was evil too now?

"Pity. Didn' expect it." Hagrid glanced up at Harry and smiled, a gentle smile. Harry felt more at home in that instant than he had after a week in Slytherin. "Still, you'll do jus' fine, an' it's nothin' to be ashamed of so you don' need to look so sick abou' it."

"But... weren't all the wizards who went bad Slytherins?"

"More or less, aye, but tha's not to say it's all saints in the other three or that Slytherins is all scum or nothin'. So don' you be thinkin' it, alright Harry?" A huge hand slapped down on his shoulder. It knocked all the wind out of him, but it was very warm. "The colour of a tie - that don' change ye. Just remember, 'Arry, you can't look at a person's outside and know the inside. Nor with any animal or beast." Hagrid laughed a great booming laugh and tossed a hunk of meat to Fang. "Look at Fang 'ere! Big droolly thing, people think he'll take a finger off, but he's a ruddy coward. The colour of a tie... no, no, no. No bearing on ye bein' a good person."

"There's a lot of bullying in Slytherin," said Harry, quietly. He didn't want to disagree with Hagrid, but...

Hagrid tilted his head, his great eyebrows knotting with sympathy. "I know, lad... All sorts come out here after they've had it bad, they know I won't tell nobody if I say I won't an' sometimes going to Teacher ain't the answer. Not sayin' it's easy. All the bes' Slytherins I ever knew, they had an 'ard time there. And I've known some very good'uns. But as oft as not it was the other 'ouses was 'ard on 'em, as much as their own. Bullies turn up ev'rywhere. It's what you do back that says 'oo you are."

* * *

><p>"You must be the <em>youngest seeker <em>in-"

"-A century," said Harry, interrupting Ron with the barest of a smug grin. "Hermione looked it up." They were sitting by the lake, under a willow tree, enjoying the last of the evening sun.

"_Bloody_ brilliant."

"Yeah."

"Just wish you weren't playing for the enemy-"

"Don't worry, Ron, I'll probably be rubbish and Gryffindor'll win easily." Harry laughed. "I almost hope so. To be honest I don't really like most of the blokes on our team."

"You won't be, though."

"And you're too stubborn to play badly just so the Gryffs can win," observed David, without looking up from his textbook.

"Fair."

"I can't _wait_ to try out," said Ron. "I think it's rubbish they won't let first years play - don't tell 'Moine, she'll say it's dangerous and lecture my ear off - I'm going to try out for keeper, I think. Long arms. Good for keepers. Oi, David, you going to try out?"

David snorted.

"You could be a beater, beaters are supposed to be built big - you like hurting things - "

Harry hid a grin.

"I was never allowed to play sports before, it's a bit late to be starting now."

Ron looked horrified. "Weren't _allowed_?"

"I wasn't well," admitted David.

"What do you mean?"

"Leave it alone."

Harry knew a warning when he heard one. Even if he _was_ insanely curious. "Will you both come and watch the practice, though?"

"Yeah, alright." David closed his book. "Game of chess, Ron?"

"You're on."

Harry set himself up to watch. Ron and David always had the best games.

* * *

><p>"Hiya, Harry!"<p>

Harry glanced up and smiled. "Zei gezunt, Avi?" He'd never understand David's grudge against his brothers - particularly, it seemed, against Avi, who was pretty much the nicest person Harry could name apart from Hagrid. It was always a bit of a relief to meet them outside of David's company.

Avi sat down across from him, plonking down a stack of library books. "You're in here a lot lately. They don't give you _that_ much homework in first year, do they? So close to the hols?"

"No, it's not homework," said Harry, gesturing down at the tome open in front of him. "Hagrid mentioned Nicholas Flamel and now I'm trying to find out who he is."

"Flamel?" Avi raised a brow. "Hagrid didn't strike me as the alchemical type. All sorts, I guess."

"You know something about him?" asked Harry, eagerly, kicking himself mentally for not thinking to ask one of David's brothers before now. They seemed to know everything.

"Sure I do. He's over 600 years old - French, but he speaks every language you could imagine. Nice man, I'm told. Or. Well. Nicer than you'd expect. Very religious, which makes sense, I mean he probably suffers from a lot of guilt."

"Er. I sort of meant what made him important."

"Oh, right. Sorry, I thought you knew."

Harry shook his head. "I can't find a single reference to him. Anywhere in the library."

Avi made a face. "I know of one book, but it's in the restricted section. Might be easier if I just... do you know anything about alchemy?"

"It's sort of... chemistry that's also magic?"

"That's a good place to start. Alchemy is a branch of magical practice, interconnected with potions, that deals with the inherent nature of substances and objects. It typically involves three core goals - creating life, seeking immortality, and turning lesser materials into gold."

Harry could see why someone would want to do all those things. He nodded. "So... Flamel's an alchemist?"

"One of the best. He created the first stable Philosopher's Stone. And the second, as it happens. The Stone can catalyze complete transmutation into gold and can produce an elixir that renders the drinker immortal. Two of the core three goals of alchemy."

The word 'immortal' echoed in Harry's ears. He thought about the little packet Hagrid had collected from the Gringotts vault. "So... it's really valuable?"

"Incredibly so." Avi had that look on his face again, like he didn't want to have to say something, or think about it.

"Why's the book in the restricted section, then?" asked Harry.

The look got more pronounced. "Well..." Avi trailed off and started again. "It takes a lot of potential energy to transmute. You're taking something with an inherent lack of worth and transforming it into something with inherent worth. It's not like transfiguration, where the thing's still itching to resume its true form, and your magic stands in its way... it's a permanent change. Immortality takes even _more_ energy. People aren't meant to live that long, Harry. You have to defy the inertia of all the thousands of things that ought to have killed you by then. All that potential... it requires death. Untimely death."

"Flamel... killed people?"

"No, no, nonono. He just used their deaths. The Black Death had wiped out nearly a third of Europe. All those lives cut short, all that potential energy released back into the system with nowhere to go... Flamel was on a pilgrimage through Spain and met a group of Jewish alchemists on the road. Us Jews have always known life has a cost. Action, reaction, no free lunch, all that. Flamel, he didn't have the same kind of caution. He made the first stone in 1410 by crystallizing all that death-energy into a physical object."

"That doesn't seem _too_ bad," said Harry.

"Well. After that he lived a long time, but eventually that Stone destabilized and destroyed itself... He was living on stored Elixer, days numbered... until a calamity of comparable size came about, and another Stone could be made."

"What calamity?"

"World War Two."

"...Oh," was all Harry felt he had the right to say.

"Yeah," said Avi, with that same pained look. "People are much more willing to forgive opportunism when it's a natural disaster than when it's a genocide. They outlawed the making of them after that. Flamel's Stone is probably the last one the world will ever see. He had to make a deal with the Wizengamot wherein they let him keep it so long as it stayed a secret. That's why he's not in any of the library books outside the restricted section. He pops up here and there in things nobody's thought to edit him out of, but for the most part, he's faded into obscurity where he's safe."

"How come _you_ know about him?"

"I want to be an alchemist," said Avi, seeming to brighten. "And not the kind that profits off of death, either."

* * *

><p>"God, I hope he's alright..."<p>

They had passed unharmed through the purple flames that guarded the room with Snape's riddle. Hermione and David picked their way over the unconscious troll, noses wrinkled against the smell.

"Eugh, what a stench - he'll be fine, Hermione. Harry can take on old Snape any day. He's got my Hebrew spells and his father's cloak and he's the Boy Who Lived."

"Are you just saying that to make me feel better?"

"Neyn," admitted David, "I'm also saying it to make _me_ feel better. It doesn't seem very hopeful."

They moved down a long, narrow stone passageway and back into the room with the the giant chess set. Hermione hurried to kneel beside Ron's unconscious body.

"He's still breathing - poor Ron -"

"I'll stay with him," said David. "You go and get help." She'd need to fly through the room with the winged keys, and David was a mess on a broom; besides, the teachers would sooner believe her than him by a few miles.

Hermione nodded, her eyes wet with tears. Then suddenly she was clinging to his robes. "David- David, Harry's going to _die_ -"

Nobody had ever cried on him before. David patted her awkwardly. Then the awkwardness seemed to dissolve as he suddenly realized that he was scared too. Being scared for somebody else wasn't like being scared for yourself. He put an arm around her and she buried her head in the crook of his neck.

A moment later Hermione pulled away from him, knuckling the tears out of her eyes. "Sorry."

David was close to crying himself now, willing himself not to. He didn't trust himself to speak, in case it made his voice crack.

"Only - you and Harry are the first people my age to just meet me and - like me. And not think I'm just - just a swotty teacher's pet who's - who's got to know everything." She sniffed. "My first ever friends. And I don't want to lose any part of that."

He reached out and grabbed her hand and squeezed it. Then, just as quickly, he let go. "Go," he urged her.

Hermione got to her feet and started off at a run. But just before she passed through the door to the room with the keys, she glanced back at him and smiled.

* * *

><p><strong>With thanks to a friend I met on the Hogwarts Express (ish) for his ideas about alchemy and the Stone. <strong>

**Up next: more Ghost-David and grown-up Hermione, or perhaps something else first. We'll see.**

**Please R&R!**


	15. Wherefore Love is of Immortality

Summary: A series of oneshots in the universe of 'The Rebel Snakes', exploring magic in other cultures, the intersection of magic and Muggle worlds, and the dichotomy of magic and faith. Mostly Gold-centric, with frequent appearances by the trio, the Slytherins and various others. Features linguistically brilliant Harry, morally confused Malfoy, flirty Myrtle, social justice Hermione, chessmaster Ron and BAMF Neville.

Not really in response to anything, it just needed to happen.

Part 14: The end of 7th year, and beyond. Gold misses his train.

* * *

><p>Gold found himself in a train station.<p>

It looked, he realized idly, very much like King's Cross, if you were to empty it of travellers, and clean it thoroughly, and fill it with bright white light.

Well. _Almost_ empty it of travellers. A little ways away, a tall, thin man dressed in all black stood at the platform, waiting.

Gold ambled over. "Wotcher, professor."

Snape glanced down at him for a moment, his lip curling slightly. "I suppose that seals it."

"Seals what?"

"I'm dead."

He didn't look dead. His face looked less lined, more _whole_, than it had in years. But if Gold looked at him from another angle he could perceive a violent slash in Snape's neck, a rivulet of black blood drying fast over his robes. It wasn't quite seeing so much as looking through. "You're dead," he confirmed.

Snape seemed to relax. "I knew it would be that wretched snake," he murmured, as if the idea amused him.

His Master must have turned on him. Gold shrugged. "More fool you for not taking the antivenom, then."

"I did. Antivenom is of little help when the carotid artery has been severed."

"Ironic, isn't it, Ssseverus of the sssnake house?"

"Please, doom me not to an eternity of your wordplay." Snape began to walk away along the edge of the tracks. To Gold's surprise, he beckoned, as if he meant for Gold to join him.

"I tried to save you," said Snape, after a long moment.

Gold opened his mouth, and closed it again.

"Naturally you could not know. My position could not be jeopardized. I thought often of making some use of your apparent immunity to legilimency, but by that point you yourself had become too unreliable."

"...You..." Suddenly it all made sense. "You were a double agent. All along."

"A triple agent, in fact. The Dark Lord believed me to be _his_ spy. Dumbledore knew me to be a spy for both sides, albeit loyal to the light."

"What's why you never told You-Know-Who about the Hebraic magic. You were _warning_ us." Gold was suddenly struck by every vicious thought he had spared for Snape over the past months. And the aching, hollow loneliness of the man himself. What kind of a _life_ was that? "For what? Why sacrifice so much for people who hated you?"

"Do not ask me that," said Snape, curtly. "You have your principles, I have my loyalty."

"What about Potter?"

"Potter knows. I... informed him. My last act. He knows what he must do..." He was quiet for a moment. "Lambs to the slaughter. I could not have spared him his fate."

"His _fate_?"

"Potter has to die. He bears a piece of the Dark Lord's soul in that mark on his forehead." Snape glanced at Gold and raised a brow. "Did you think you were the only one with demons in your head?" he asked, with something that was not quite a smile - but the ghost of one, perhaps.

"Professor, there was nothing you could do." he said, after a moment - not so much because he believed it as because it seemed the only humane thing to say.

Snape shook his head. "If I'd had more time, I could have at least cured you. We were making progress."

"You and my brothers, no doubt," said Gold, tasting metallic anger in the back of his throat.

"Of course," said Snape.

Gold kicked suddenly and savagely at the ground. "Poor substitute for Potter," he spat. "You wasted your time."

"Your brothers disagreed."

"My brothers, whose whole lives were stymied and shuttered by _my _parasitic existence." Gold didn't know what he was saying, yet he couldn't still his own tongue. The words wanted to be said. "Better that I'd never been born. What did I achieve? What good came of any of it?"

"Do you believe in God, David?"

The question caught him so totally off guard that he forgot his anger, his reeling hatred of the life he'd been condemned to. "Do I..."

"Believe in God. You are a Jew, are you not?"

"Not an especially good one."

"I am - was - generally of the 'God is dead' philosophy," said Snape.

"G-D is not dead, professor, He's merely drunk in a ditch somewhere. My belief in G-D was my greatest act of defiance. He abandoned me. I chased after Him and clung to His ankles."

"You think He was wrong to make you?"

"I think He was wrong about a great many things. The finest gift He ever gave humanity was the capacity to be better than Him. Such is free will."

Snape looked off into the distance, down the endless train tracks that ran on and on into white light and nothingness. There was a low, far-off rumble. "Minerva used to speak of seeing her finest students go off to grand careers at the best magical schools in the world. Following their work and seeing them become more brilliant than she herself was." For a moment, he looked almost wistful. Death had gentled him faintly, it seemed. "If I had been a better teacher - if I had been a teacher at all - I might have known the feeling myself. Perhaps that is how God feels."

"That was what Vector wanted from me," Gold realized, numbly. "Too late now."

"That and more - she wanted you to be happy. Septima recognized your potential, but she was also exceptionally fond of you."

"Was she? Why?"

"Your efforts to render yourself spiny and poisonous never quite concealed the large heart underneath."

"I blame the baby fat," Gold deflected. "Try cultivating a reputation as a bastard when people keep pinching your cheeks."

Snape looked amused. "I could have given you pointers. I used to curse my inherent detestability, but it was invaluable to me as a spy."

"You'll be sung as a hero now."

"Merlin, I hope not. Potter wouldn't allow it."

"Potter will make sure of it. He gives people their due. Did you know - he once told me - in Central America, magic is thought to stem primarily from the spirits of the remembered dead? A wizard seeking to augment his own power will pay homage to the spirits of ancestors and loved ones past, as a kind of a bartering tool. The act of remembrance intercedes on their behalf, gives them greater status and happiness in the afterlife and they, in repayment, channel magic into the wizard."

"They are hardly the only culture to have intercessive ideas about the dead," mused Snape. "The Greeks shared a notion about immortality through great and lasting deeds, I believe, a notion which later entered the Western church through the Byzantines. The cult of sainthood and intercession. In another sense, it is the only reason I can possibly fathom to ever sire children."

_"To the mortal creature, generation is a sort of eternity and immortality,_" Gold quoted. His memory had been flickering in the past weeks, but now the words rose to him easily.

"_Love is of the everlasting possession of the good, all men will necessarily desire immortality together with good: Wherefore love is of immortality,_" Snape finished. "Symposium."

"I love Plato," said Gold. "I disagree with him utterly, but I love him."

The rumbling in the distance was slowly growing louder. "For my own part I do not need to be remembered."

Gold couldn't fathom that. The idea horrified him. Leaving no mark - no mark at all - making no _change _upon the world - a shiver ran through his body. "Why not? How could you possibly not?"

"Everyone I love is dead," said Snape, quite simply.

"I envy you that."

The rumbling grew louder still. Out of the white light appeared a shape, which resolved itself into an oncoming train.

"I think this is us." Gold stared up at it. Though the windows, shapes were visible. Faceless people, blending indistinctly with the omnipresent white light. "So that's what the afterlike looks like..."

"I think," said Snape, "that I can accept it."

The train came to a halt in front of them, huffing pale steam into the whiteness like the last breaths of the dead. A set of steps unfolded from its doors to meet the platform.

"Are you coming?"

"I have to, don't I?" Gold's voice was dull. "I'm dead."

"No," said Snape. "You must choose to move on, or not to move on. Free will cannot be given up except by an act of free will."

"Oh." That... changed things.

Snape climbed onto the steps, his black robes billowing about him with the steam of the train. He seemed not so much to walk as to glide towards the doors. When he turned back to glance at Gold, his face was ageless, smooth and serene.

Gold didn't need to think about it to know what he would do. The faceless shades on the train were repulsive to him. He remained where he was, planting his feet stubbornly against the ground. It felt good.

Snape nodded to him, turned, and passed through the doors of the train, into nothingness. A few moments later, the train pulled away.

"This is my choice," he said aloud, and was elated to hear the sound of his own voice. He hadn't had a choice in a very long time.

Gold walked onwards until the white light of the station dulled into daylight. Eventually he came upon the battlegrounds that had been the gates and bridge of Hogwarts, now still and silent in the light of the morning. The fighting, it seemed, was over. He saw the bodies of many death eaters, the Goliath he had killed. A little, broken thing that he recognized painfully as Didon Pettyfer. His own body, spread-eagled, felled by a killing curse. He approached it. It was strange to be looking at himself from outside himself. From where he was standing he could see the words scarred into the back of his palm and the fading bruises of a black eye; in his mind's eye, he saw the old surgical scars across the swell of his stomach and the egg-sized malignancy behind his brow.

He felt a little pity for it, that useless body that had always betrayed him.

The faint sound of an owl's _hoo_ caught him off his guard. It flitted through the rubble and the bodies, settling here and there to hoot mournfully before taking off again. It was a tiny thing, smaller than Gold's first.

"Pocket?"

Gold's owl fluttered over and landed on the body, nuzzling the cold cheek.

"Hey, boy, look," said Gold, reaching out to touch the owl and passing through it like so much mist. "I'm still here. Sort of."

Pocket was looking at him properly, now, tilting his head as if trying to understand.

"See? It's me."

Another soft hoot, and Pocket took off again. Without thinking, Gold ran after the bird - and found that he could keep up easily, gliding over the grounds and through the mounds of rubble. Pocket led him inside, down into the dungeons, to the Slytherin dorms. They were deserted. The bird did not stop until he had perched atop Gold's old dresser.

Suddenly Gold understood. "The letter."

Pocket was already pecking at the top drawer, wriggling into it to push it open wider.

"No!" He reached for the drawer and passed through it. "Don't deliver it." The was no need for Hermione to know, not any more. He didn't think he could stand her knowing while his spirit persisted.

Pocket wriggled back out of the drawer with the letter pinched in his tiny beak and stared at him. Gold was sure he was imagining it, but the little saw-whet looked like it was reproaching him.

"I'll tell her someday," he lied.

Pocket dropped the letter. It fell through a crack in the chest of drawers.

"Good boy," said Gold. "For now, I have work to do."

* * *

><p>"Can you travel?"<p>

The Golem of Slytherin tilted his head at her.

"I've been reading about it," said Rosie, by way of explanation. "Some ghosts are tied to a physical location because it held some emotional significance for them... or had what they believe to be some narrative influence in their life."

He snorted. "Is _that_ why I keep waking up in the abandoned girls' toilets?"

Rosie laughed. "You mean the ones the sixth-years use for secret snogging sessions?"

"... That's the one, sure enough. I made a decision in there that... well, it changed things. I've often wondered."

"Wondered what?"

"It concerns your mum. I don't think you want to know."

Rosie wasn't sure he was right. She knew David was more than twice her age, chronologically, but in every other sense he was seventeen years old. He'd come to feel like a grumpy older brother. Moreover, he'd died a seventh year, which made him a veritable authority in her eyes on all the things that she had come to be intensely curious about in the past year. Like snogging in abandoned loos. "Oh, go on, I'm aware my parents were young at one point. I've seen them kiss."

"Gross."

"I know, right?"

The Golem sighed. "...Just a what-might-have-been. That's all." He seemed embarrassed. Which wasn't like him at _all_.

"What did you like about her?" asked Rosie.

"Your mother had an unique way of making me feel ugly and stupid."

"And that's... good?"

"It was a challenge," said David, as if that explained everything.

"So essentially if I want to get a boyfriend I need to make boys feel worthless."

He looked amused. "Not if you're after Scorpius."

"How did you know?"

"I have eyes. Scorpius isn't prideful, not the way I was. He gets that from his mum. And like his daddy, he's absolute rubbish at reading people. You want him, you need to be sweet to him. Spell it out for him in little love-hearts. _I fancy you, kiss-kiss, Hogsmeade Friday evening?_"

"Don't tease me," said Rosie, hiding her face so he couldn't see if it had turned pink.

"But it's so _easy_."

"Git. What I wanted to know was, can you get away from Hogwarts as far as, say, London?"

The Golem nodded. "Why?"

"I thought maybe you'd want to spend Christmas with us," said Rosie. And then, because she didn't want him to think she was culturally insensitive or stupid when she prided herself on being the precise opposite, she added, "I know you don't celebrate it, but we're not even a little bit religious about it and I don't like thinking about you being all alone here every year."

He was silent for a moment. "If I do, I need you to do me a favour, and not ask a lot of questions about it."

"But..." Asking questions was Rosie's purpose in life.

"It's important."

She nodded.

The Golem led her down from the great hall into the Slytherin dungeons. He told her the password to get into the common room, and from there led her up into the boys' dormitories, where she startled a number of seventh-year boys.

"Out, all of you, or I'll make you regret it for the rest of your lives."

They scarpered. There were certain advantages to being a ghost.

David glid around the room once or twice, as if retracing steps from long ago. At last, he arrived at an old oak chest of drawers.

"Look in the top drawer."

Rosie pulled it open, and made a face. "Eugh - socks, and they smell - "

"Is there an envelope?"

It took her a while to find it. It had slipped back in between the drawer's side and the wood of the chest itself. But at last she unearthed a yellowing parchment envelope. It was addressed to her mother, in sharp, spiky handwriting.

The Golem stared at it for a long moment. "...Send it to her," he said, at last.

"What is it?" asked Rosie, looking up at him with the biggest eyes she could muster.

"Don't make me explain it more than once. Ask your mother."

* * *

><p>It had been a long, long time. She still felt a little guilty about that. But life moved on. People who had once been dear drifted away. Until Rosie mentioned the Golem she had not thought of Gold since her wedding day - and even then, only to think wistfully that it would have been nice to have him there to edit the speeches. The Weasley family, bless them, had a tendency to ramble.<p>

Her memories had romanticized him. As she grew up, so too had David grown up in her mind's eye. Yet here was the truth in front of her; Hermione had become a woman, with silver streaks in her mane of brown and strong arms from years of lifting textbooks and years more of lifting her daughter. And Gold had stayed the same, still a smooth-faced teenager in a Hogwarts uniform whose chubby cheeks made him look even younger than his years when he wasn't actively scowling. She'd been attracted to him once. Now she felt more maternal than anything else.

Of course, that was probably the fault of the letter.

_Dear Granger,_

_By the time you read this I will be dead. My decision not to tell you in person was regrettable, but necessary. I want you to know that your friendship has been the most important of my life. It was not out of inattention, apathy or lack of trust that I concealed this.  
><em>

_I grew up in a cancer ward. I have the option of dying in one as well, or getting myself killed in the coming war. You and I both know which one I've chosen. It was stomach cancer then and it's brain cancer now. I've made my peace with it, insofar as that is possible._

_I concealed it from you and the others because I cannot tolerate pity. In my experience it is the death of respect. Let me not lose your respect._

_Your friend,  
>Gold<em>

It was so _like _him. Affection carefully hidden behind terseness and stilting formality. Hermione had grown up enough to see through it easily. Perhaps his ghost knew that now. The specter looked embarrassed.

"I got your letter."

"Good."

"It explains a lot."

"Good."

"Why now?"

"Rosie."

Hermione needed no further explanation. Her daughter was a force of her own - she had her mother's curiousity combined with her father's sense of uncomplicated, empathetic decency. Gold's sharp edges would have presented no difficulty for her.

"Weasley's alright with me being here?"

"Ron doesn't hold grudges. At least, not that long."

"I hoped not."

Hermione tilted her head. "I missed you, David."

And just like that, the awkwardness melted. The ghost smiled. "So how's _Spew_?"

* * *

><p><strong>No idea what's coming next. None!<br>**

**Please R&R!**


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